


Trials 1:10

by Aynde



Series: The Trials of Fortitude [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Andrastianism, Atheism, Cassandra's going to call her hart Dhearas "Deer-ass", Disclaimer: Hard-Boiled Egg, Elvhen Language, F/M, Friendship, Fucking With Canon, Gen, Idk what i'm doing, MC ships friendship, Politics, So Much Friendship, Solas can be dense, The Chantry, What's that I was inspired by Lavellan saying "Var lath vir suledin"? NOO! Never! :D, but the spirit tales are going to be shorter, elves pissed off at mispronounced elvhen, faith - Freeform, just wait, no seriously I need a cheerleader, somebody like this, two stories in one, versus all the barbaric gods in thedas, writing from memory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aynde/pseuds/Aynde
Summary: Rosalea Lavellan has lived a long time. Spirit-born from Fortitude, she both survived The Fall and resisted the call of Uthenera. That... doesn't exactly make her all-knowing. She wasn't exactly an Archivist in her last life, after all!Solas, she surmised, had only experienced the world through the Dreaming, and thus afflicted in a negative manner.He'll learn.But only if Rosalea can figure out how to deal with the threats on her home, mortals worshiping her, and screaming pain as a tremendously powerful mark rips at her immortal form to render the spirit within her to nothing. She must endure.A Spirit's Tale: The story of how a spirit-born elf won the Spirit of Fortitude's loyalty, guided her to become spirit-born herself, and ultimately lost her.





	1. Fortitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief Origin.

* * *

\-- A **Spirit's Tale: I --**

* * *

Past the domain of Kal-Sharok in the far northwest, where the sun beat down against the land with fierce determination, there lay a great crater. 

Appearing as if a great impact had struck a blow long ago, the canyon’s shelf was steep and formed as perfect a circle as nature could form. Within its depths sprung a great well, pure water from which no river fed it. In the center of this great lake jutted a solitary peak.

This was the domain of a great Spirit, who guarded the valley fiercely. With good reason - the power that lay within this tranquil lake was vast, and tamed only grudgingly through the stubbornness of the Phoenix-King.

Such wasn’t the case anymore.

The land was outraged, and angry rumbling shook the valley itself.

An invader had come! An elf, who waltzed through with vicious determination. Any Spirit that appeared before him in defense of the Phoenix-King was torn asunder. There was no surrender, only death - and in this death, the very particles of their being swept around the elf like a blessed breeze that grew stronger and stronger with each passing life.

Lines scored into the earth, every death spreading further and further until a matrix formed and encompassed the throne peak.

Power eclipsed with the sacrifice of the King. Once a former Spirit of Ambition, the elf grinned ferally and welcomed the power as his due.

Echoing screams left imprints within the Beyond, crying at the injustice done by their brother. A lone soul, who had chased after the invader from the outside, mourned with them. 

He tried again to reason. “Your actions are killing Spirits, Brother! Our Brethren!” 

“Sentiment.” His brother scoffed. “I am harnessing their reformation. All of Elvhenan will be better for it!” His moon-blade sliced through the air again, shrieks dying as he took another step towards the Abyss.

“Brother, please!” The elf cried desperately, hand reaching out across an impossible gap, even as the other was mere steps away. “Do not go where I cannot follow!”

“Power beyond measure lay before me, Brother.” Was the chilling reply. Ambition’s eyes did not stray from their goal even once.

Ambition’s twin, Cunning, fell to his knees and wept at the back of his other half. “How will I live on without you?”

Ambition dismissed such a question out of hand. A loud crack echoed through the air as he swung his moon-blade one more time, pearly runes forming the slightest of doors. In the following silence, Ambition stepped through the tear to the Abyss.

It was not without pain. Ambition sacrificed his earthly connection in this moment - the brother who cried out at his back. Ambition would be _more_ following this moment.

“Ithamir… How will I live!?” Cunning - _Sharth_ \- cried as his soul was rent in two. 

Sharth hugged himself with a white knuckled grip, as if he could hold physically hold together the tattered remains of where _Brother_ had been mere moments ago.

It was no use.

Wretched, hacking sobs escaped the elf as he broke in the field of the dead.

His Brother was power-mad. So many of the Spirits that called the Phoenix-King’s valley home had perished. Reformation, Ithamir had said. He stole their life energy in this ugly, cataclysmic ritual.

Why didn’t he stop him! The elf cried to himself desperately. He had _seen_ the pinning of the Phoenix-King! Surely, it hadn’t been too late, if he had only moved…!

A ghostly, red-gold hand touched his cheek, an intangible nail brushing away his tears.

Sharth’s head jerked upwards, only to stare in wonder.

Standing tall before him was a Spirit that had clearly survived the onslaught. Gashes covered its form with a sickly green light, yet somehow the Spirit was not dissolving into motes of ether.

“ _You will endure, as I have endured._ ” Declared the Spirit of Fortitude.

“I cannot.” Sharth closed his eyes tightly. “I.. do not know how to be alone.” He choked out.

Fortitude knelt before Cunning then, Spirit to Spirit, and held out its insubstantial hands before him in supplication. “ _Then I will stay beside you._ ” Fortitude vowed, its voice resonating with intent in the aer. “ _Be your bulwark, bolster you when you fall. Until one day, when you are able to stand tall, alone._ ” 

Such a statement was as comforting as it was daunting.

Sharth could not fathom such a future. Despite this, he inhaled a deep breath, nodded, and clasped hands with the Spirit before him.

* * *

\--  **Friendships that Endure Time --**

* * *

A great fight had broken out among Clan Lavellan this day.

Weeks ago, the traders of the Clan had come back from Wycome with bloodless faces and whispers of the Divine calling a Conclave.

A Conclave might mean peace for Southern Thedas - but equally, it might mean a call to arms, a trap, a Holy War.

Ever since the Circle of Magi had shed their shackles, the Chantry attack dogs had been particularly vicious. Not even Dalish were safe from the Templars these days, and with the free mages being hunted down, rarely were they reasonable.

Of course, at least among Clan Lavellan, their numbers _had_ swelled, as the Clan snatched up every fleeing elf they could sit on until they listened. It was no wonder nervous tension was at a high inside the Clans borders.

No one in the Clan was making any decisions, and Rosalea knew it would bite them in the ass if they weren’t careful. Not an hour ago, she’d gotten in a screaming match with Ishtarylin over his fear-mongering with the young ones.

Suffice to say, she was now quite motived - and very, very angry.

Rosalea stomped violently on her pack as she cinched the bindings tight with a snarl. “...Egotistical, no-good... _delavir’mesildelen, NUVA HALLA DIRASH NA IN SILASEM MASA!_ ” She finished with a bellow.

Perhaps angry was an understatement. Rosalea was lucky there were no spirits of Rage looking over her shoulder right this instant.

“Sala.” A voice said reprovingly from behind her. Rosalea ignored her Keeper in favor of tacking her hart.

“Do not leave with anger in your heart, _ma’falon._ ” Istimaethorial tried instead.

Rosalea’s hands stilled. “...Ishtarylin should know better.” She said quietly. Dhearas snorted and stamped his hoof in agreement upon the ground. Knickering quietly, Rosalea calmed the hart and finished tightening the straps before turning around.

Rosalea was struck by the resemblance to the other elf’s twelve year old self. It may have been eighty-three years since the day they met, but Istimaethorial had aged gracefully. Silver streaked through the blood red common to the Lavellan clan, but her stormy eyes still flashed like lightning at sea.

Rosalea sighed, and took a step forward. “Tori, you know I will be back.”

“Will you?” Istimaethorial asked, crossing her arms and tossing her long, beaded hair. “You may return to clan Lavellan, as you always do, but somehow I doubt it will be in what remains of my lifetime.”

“...I would never let you leave this world without saying good-bye. You know that, do you not?” Rosalea asked, taking a step and placing her hands at Tori’s elbows, gentle but with a squeeze of desperation.

“I do.” Tori said, and leaned upwards to press her forehead to her friends chin. “But to see you finally take your leave… it breaks my heart in two. The clan will never be the same. ... _I_ will never be the same.”

“Tori…” Rosalea hesitated. “It would not have been long anyway. I never stay with the Clan for more than half a century. For good reason. I have been putting it off over half again now, because I love each and every one of you too dearly to let go. It is mere happenstance that Ishtarylin was the catalyst for this departure.”

“Happenstance that his drunken, irascible disposition caused a clan-wide fight over our place in the brewing war? That old goat knew exactly what he was doing. The young need to be reminded sometimes, of both pride’s place, and pride’s folly. One cannot teach all lessons with a mere branch, after all.” Istimaethorial finished with a wry smile.

A reluctant smile tugged at Rosalea’s lips. “Yet blunt force trauma works so well!”

“Sala!” Tori scolded, before breaking into giggles that better suited an elf a fraction of her age. After a beat, Rosalea joined in, snorting inelegantly in her laughter.

“Oh…” Tori breathed, “I will miss you so, _ma’tamaris_.”

“And I, you.” Sala said with an easy smile.

Suddenly, Dhearas let out a loud, obnoxious Hart-Bellow in agreement, nudging his giant head into the hug. There was laughter again, and Istimaethorial threw her tiny arms around the hart’s neck. “You are a silly beast, but I will miss you as well, of course.”

Rosalea pulled away and picked up her pack. As much as she loved, and would miss, her dear friend, the sun was starting to die in the sky. “Tori, it is time for me to go.”

Istimaethorial stepped away, and watched as her friend, the woman who had taught her so much of life, mounted her hart and prepared to leave forever. She mourned. “You do not wish the Clan to see you depart?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. The Clan will live on, and I will see it again soon enough.” Such words may have sounded cold, but it was true. Years would go by in a blink for Sala. Yet always would she return to this home.

“I will send word when I reach the Conclave.” Rosalea uttered severely.

Istimaethorial nodded, the weight of _Keeper_ settling over her with a wan smile. “ _Ma nuvenin. Dareth shiral, ma’tamaris_.”

“ _Dareth shiral._ ” Rosalea echoed, Dhearas following up with a bellow, before they bolted into motion. In moments, Istimaethorial was alone.

“ _Enastemah’dys._ ” She whispered, then turned resolutely. The Keeper had a clan to reprimand.

* * *

There was no ship in Ostwick that would take both a savage knife-ear and it’s mount, so Rosalea resigned herself to the land route.

It took almost two months.

The year long warmth of northern Thedas fled along her journey. By the time Rosalea reached The Heartlands, she started worrying about Dhearas, and his lack of true winter coat. He just didn’t need it near Wycome, where it was warm almost year round.

Rosalea could have kept going, pushed onward.

She found the nearest Clan instead. It was… not a pleasant parting, but a necessary one.

Rosalea continued south, hugging the great lake humans called Calenhad, which the Elvhen had once called _tuasha’manala_ , and found another reason to be relieved she had housed her friend.

Even with the human’s Divine having called a cease-fire, the Mage-Templar war was merciless and bloody.

Finally, she was in sight of the road the _shemlen_ were calling The Path to Peace. Even from a distance, Rosalea could see that it was lined on either side with Templars and Mages, with pilgrims, chantry-folk, and refugees scattered in the center.

The idea of walking between the warring factions made her uneasy, but there was nothing to be done about it unless she wanted to outright sneak in.

Rosalea considered and dismissed it in the same breath. Going in with refugees would legitimize her presence, to a point.

A small, quick spell hid the _vallaslin_ on her face. Nothing else truly needed adjusting - it was very true that she was weary from her travels, downtrodden, and, honestly, quite wary of the war.

Minutes later, Rosalea was walking the path herself.

After that? It was blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit:** Those with keen eyes will see an extra dozen or so paragraphs, mostly in the Spirit Tale but also in the Introduction to Rosalea as she currently is. I hammered out all the Elvhen names I'm going to use in this fic, and then promptly realized the scope of what happened with Ambition was terrible, so I tried to fix it. As for the Lavellan part - keep an eye out, because in a few weeks I might replay just the DA:O beginnings, get a feel for what it should be like to apply the way it never got applied in DAI.
> 
> Hey, first chapter! Tell me what you think! No, seriously. I'm normally a one shot person, so I'm not 100% sure on flow. It's ok first chapter length, though I stg it looked longer on my word. it's only once you post it that you go, oh, that's barely a morsel... Well. It's a good first chapter length at least?
> 
> Traveling time taken from: [Here](http://leliaanaa.tumblr.com/post/139558178165/thedas-wide-travel-times-assorted-routes-distances)
> 
> Moon-blade. Properly in elvhen _evun'misu_ it is a sickle or scythe. For the Spirit Tales, I'm trying not to use Elvhen. Why pepper it with a language they would be speaking anyway?
> 
> I haven't figure out what Rosalea will look like yet, if I will at all. I've decided to make Clan Lavellan a clan of redheads with no regrets. Like Asch the Bloody color hair. Doesn't mean hers will be. As a spirit though, she was red-gold, like a rising sun. So maybe I'll just apply that.
> 
> I'm not exactly a _fan_ of the name Rosalea, but I literally couldn't find a good word for Fortitude. And sorry not sorry but I wasn't going to call her Suledin. Rosalea is pronounced ro-SAH-lay-ah. I might decide to call her Roseluth, or Rosasha. We'll see.
> 
> My shoddy Elvhen is, of course, in hovertext inside the story itself, but I have it here for the people on mobile and for people to pick apart.
> 
> _Rosalea_  
>  _Lavellan_  
>  _Dhearas_  
>  _Delavir’mesildelen_  
>  _Nuva halla dirash na_  
>  _in silasem masa_  
>  _Ma’tamaris_  
>  _Enastemah’dys_  
>  _Ithamir_  
>  _Ishtarylin_  
>  |  Name: Enduring Light  
>  Blood-ship-person  
>  Morning fog  
>  Stupid and pathetic person  
>  May a halla kick his  
>  drunken ass  
>  True Friend  
>  Blessings of Luck  
>  Name: Forward Gaze  
>  Name: Son of Storms  
>   
> ---|---


	2. Withstand the Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make their way to the Breach, and Varric just won't shut up.

Shine and shadow. Breathing magic, familiar mists, but wrong wrong wrong! Caws behind her, spewing lies and cackling taunts as she ranranran upwards, towards the _light-that-intercedes_ , helping her reaching _almost-!_

A pull, a blessing, a push, a stumble and-

Rosalea screamed. The pulling, ripping through her as ( _she passed from spirit-world to flesh-world_ ) she could feel _fade_ as it pulled inwards and tried to reverse and turn her _spirit_ again.

Sparks of agony, in and out. Power not meant for Flesh rippling and changing. Fight it-fight it- **I am Self!**

Then.

Quiet words, a soft touch, barriers spring into being. A breath of pungent clove and cicely that matched the _I Am Here_ and _You Will **Submit ******_pressure in the aer.

Rosalea peeled an eyelid back. A furrowed brow, with hard tension at the temple as their eyes focused beside her. Whomever this was, they had been working hard. She cast her eyes down to the source.

“Oh.” Rosalea breathed. Beautiful and powerful, it was at once a concentration of home and the shockwave of _demise_. She’d known this magic once, had seen it ripple and topple everything it touched.

But not her.

Every movement tingled with sharp pinpricks as Rosalea reached her other arm across to grip her wrist. The other’s eyes flashed to hers, a stunning grey with a heady force barely held in check behind them.

“ _Vir…_ ” Rosalea muttered, gathering mana to her thumb and middle finger, sparking the start of a ward. “ _sule **din**_!” She snarled and pushed, both with mana and with her toes digging in and pulling up _earth_ , hips arching, concentric circles of magic being created with her body, her fingers, her wrist.

Whoever was helping her was smart. He uttered quick, startled oath, and then _pulled_ to her _push_. Magic calcified in the palm of her hand.

They were panting. “That was quite impressive.” The other’s voice said mildly, pushing back sweat from his head.

There was no response.

Glancing up from where he was pawing at the edges of the mark, a bemused smile crossed Solas’s lips. Still arched, still tense, still holding on. Passed out once again.

Gently, he reached over her and repositioned her. Her hips he rested on the ground. Her big toes were two inches in the stone, and had to be pried out. Truly, impressive.

After his manipulations, she was on her side, a little curled, in case she heaved in her pain.

Solas left her hands as is.

Rising to his feet, Solas gathered his staff and knocked on the dungeon door for the guard to open.

A shard of his magic, tinged with her blood, slid into his pack.

* * *

Rosalea awoke to the feeling of a scab pulling. Hissing air between her teeth, she brought magic to bear.

It was of no use. With a shout and a clank of armor, her magic was smote from the fade, and backlashed.

Darkness beckoned.

Days? passed in a repetitive manner. When she had moments of coherence, Rosalea wondered where she was. The Gallows were gone, weren't they? Maybe she had been imprisoned in the White Spire. Even as far as her clan hailed, they had heard of the Spire’s atrocities.

But wait. Wasn’t there… a disbandment..? Where else could she be?

Through the fog, Rosalea could hear a voice snarling in anger.

“ _Fenedhis_! Have you any idea what you have done! She was stable, you fools!”

“The prisoner was gathering magic. She must be kept contained!”

“So you smote her every hour of every day? Did you even think of what effect that might have had upon the Mark? The Mark that we may need as it matches the Breach in the sky!”

“Silence, Apostate!”

“Oh yes, throw your threats upon my person as well now. I may be a mage, but _I_ at least have been of help. You, on the other hand, have undone days of work and may have doomed us all!”

“I said, SIL-”

A bang as a iron reinforced door slammed against the wall. Rosalea whimpered and cringed, trying to bring her hands up to cup her ears. She couldn’t.

“What. Is going on here.” A voice ground out in the echoing din.

“Lady Cassandra, I-”

The woman’s voice interrupted with a scathing scoff. “I changed my mind. Gabin, you are relieved. Send Commander Cullen to me before you report to latrine duty. It seems we need non-Templar guards for the prisoner. Solas,” the voice paused. It didn’t quite soften, but it wasn’t barking an order either. “See to the prisoner. Get her stabilized for questioning, if possible.”

Solas?

Wrapped feet came up to her, then crouched by her head. Through her lashes, Rosalea saw a slim fingered hand grab hers through the manacle and turn it around. There was a hiss of magic, and venomous green light discharged violently.

Rosalea keened low in her throat, flinching and trying to retract her hand protectively. The steady grip on her wrist prevented that.

“What _was_ that?” The woman asked, along with the sound of a shuffle-step forward and a blade half retracted.

“It appears all of my work has been undone. The Mark continues to spread at a faster rate than before. I am uncertain whether I can contain it again.”

“Do all you can.” The woman conceded, then announced her departure almost as loudly as she had her entrance.

There was a rueful sigh, then the elf spoke to her. “ _Savhalla, da’len. Elas vian’ena’inan._ ”

“ _Tel’da’len._ ” Rosalea said, her lips twitching as she followed his suggestion and opened her eyes. There was no need for adjusting in the low light for an Elvhen of her blood. Her eyes settled on an elf she found vaguely familiar. Perhaps because he had healed her?

“ _Tel’dhru’ma._ ” He rejoined dryly. “ _Brithas ir’da’un._ ”

Rosalea had just opened her mouth to proclaim him a liar, when he spoke over her. “ _Thuast sah’lin nera’la, mar da’lav rya him’landarem._ ”

“ _Ee_.” Rosalea uttered lowly. “ _...Tel’dhru ar halani'ena’sal. Ara sou haimu ahnsul Templar banal’varem’sha._ ”

“ _Eolasasha. Ela’em_?” The other elf asked, reaching out his pointer finger towards the Mark.

Rosalea looked towards the sparking, angry mark and nodded. “ _Vin, sathem halani_.”

The elf began drawing feather light runes upon her skin, channeling magic that she could feel in her bones. Rosalea ignored it in favor of looking the other elf over.

He was classically handsome, Rosalea noticed, and in a way that she hadn’t seen in quite a long time. Strong and sharp features. His mouth spoke of poetry, full lips that carefully stress words with underlying intent; his nose was almost maddeningly attractive, Rosalea wanted to see it snarl or flare.

“ _Tel’thanathe_.” The elf declared at long last. When he looked away from her hand at last and into her eyes, they were filled with heartbreak and tension. “ _Ir abelas_.”

Rosalea cast her eyes down. Faint lines surrounded it, but that was it. It still gaped open and screamed of the Fade. “ _Telir arias sura… tath, brithasha ol’em. La giremun i’telam’dhruelan, ara ha’lam dinemah silan.”_  She finished, rattling the manacle in emphasis.

The elf flinched.

 _“Ir nulam_... ” The elf said inaudibly. His eyes cast to her face, tracing the patterns there.

That regret. “ _...esahn…? Din_.” She decided. He may be helping her live for now, but it was merely delaying the inevitable. “ _Min viras._ ”

He kept looking at her with piercing eyes for several heartbeats. Then he inclined his head. “ _Ma nuvenin_.”

Rosalea almost regret it as she watched him walk out.

Then she sighed, settled in as comfortably as one could in a dungeon, and tried to capture the last sleep.

* * *

When Rosalea woke next, it was to a flare of magic slamming against the barrier on her palm. She hissed.

Several swords unsheathed.

Right then. Rosalea’s vague recollection about dungeons wasn’t a dream after all. Well, to be fair, she didn’t dream just now anyway. The Fade was distorted and angry while she was unconscious, and so she had avoided sleeping deeply enough to slip in. If she saw another Fearling, it would be too soon.

**_BANG_ **

There was something familiar about that sound. Rosalea glanced up in time to see a flushed, angry face stomping towards her.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” The other woman ground out through clenched teeth.

Rosalea furrowed a brow. Was that rhetorical? “...Perpetuating hate?”

The woman didn’t hear her, or ignored her as she continued her tirade. “...Everyone who attended is dead. Except for _you_.”

“By the Void.” Rosalea breathed, thinking to that long path with thousands of people traversing it. “Everyone? And an elf as a convenient scapegoat… This is terrible.”

“Scapegoat?” The woman scoffed, “A scapegoat would not have _this_.” She said, reaching down and gripping Rosalea’s hand in an unforgiving grasp.

Rosalea glanced at it. _It_ was bright green, gaping into her flesh, and spewing excess mana everywhere despite a barrier surrounding it.

Then she did a double-take.

“Is that a piece of the _Veil_? In my hand!”

How out of it had she _been_?

Her captor drew back. “The Veil?”

Another woman stepped out from the shadows. “You know what that is. How it got there.”

“Yes. NO! Agh.” Rosalea raised her hands to card them before being stopped by chains. “This… thing. It’s raw. Pure power from a massive undertaking. But it’s a...a fragment. With _intent_ still lingering in it.”

The two women exchanged glances. Then the redhead spoke, her eyes reflecting oddly in the light. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

Rosalea closed her eyes and cast her memories back. She was on the path, heading into the temple. Blank. Something was wrong.

“I… remember running. Fearlings chasing me, spewing their petty lies. There had to be something else, bigger after me. I wouldn’t run from just them.” The hot-headed captor’s face expressed doubt. “Truly. Fearling are… little. Like corrupted wisps. But they usually herald a larger demon.”

“Go on.”

“I… had to get away, get out. _We_ had to. A woman.” Rosalea ignored the echo from one of her captors. “She reached out to me but….”

“ _Etunashalla_. I only have impressions.” Rosalea finished, looking up.

“It is enough.” The warrior said, then turned to her companion. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

Rosalea stiffened. “Rift? Did… whatever happen… the deaths, thin the Veil?”

Her captor exhaled loudly through her nose. “It… will be easier to show you.” She said, unlocking the manacles and then tying together Rosalea’s wrists.

They were in a Chantry, Rosalea realized as she was led out of the dungeon and saw Sisters titter in fear at the sight of her. Then they stepped outside.

“By the VOID!” Rosalea choked out, staring straight up in the sky. A hand rested on her shoulder almost sympathetically.

“We call it The Breach.” Her captor informed her. “It is a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

Rosalea felt a chill that made the Frostback cold nothing. A direct connection to the living world… “An explosion…” Was that _thing_ the cause, or the effect? Did it even matter?

“Yes. And it is still growing. If we don’t stop it soon, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Even if Rosalea hadn’t been staring at the sky in sick fascination, she would have noticed the way it pulsed, contracting and then expanding with an audible _crack_.

Not a second later, the mark on her hand mirrored the Breach.

Rosalea sank to one knee, gripping at her wrist the best she was able.

Her captor gripped the sides of her shoulders and helped heave her up. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this but there isn’t much time.” There was a note of concern in the woman’s voice, though Rosalea couldn’t tell if it was human kindness or necessity.

Rosalea glanced back up at the Breach, then nodded. “I understand.”

The woman closed her eyes in relief. “You will help, then.”

“Yes.” Rosalea wet her lips, then straightened from the others hold. “You have my vow: I will Stand. With you, to fight and heal this all, until the day comes when all can stand alone.”

“That is more than what I was asking for!” The woman said, her eyes widening in shock.

“This world is my priority. With that,” Rosalea jerked her chin up at the sky, “My Vow is one any could have asked of me.”

Rosalea met the others hard stare. “I hope you are genuine.” She said with a nod. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry.”

“The Right Hand of the Divine. Suddenly, this makes a little more sense.” Rosalea admitted, continuing before a response. “Rosalea of Lavellan.”

Seeker Pentaghast nodded, then jerked her head in a ‘follow’ motion.

Each and every person they passed stared accusingly. Rosalea straightened her shoulders and ignored them.

“Out of the thousands who had come to the Conclave, you are the sole survivor. Because of this, they have decided your guilt.” Rosalea cast the Seeker a glance and raised a doubtful eyebrow. “You are right. We. With the explosion, we also lost Our Most Holy, Divine Justinia. And with her, our chance of peace with the war between Mages and Templars. Now, all are dead, and with it our hope.”

Rosalea looked at Cassandra, and decided to try and break the bleak air. “Should I thank you for keeping me from a lynch mob, then?”

Cassandra huffed, “They are not thinking clearly, and lashing out. Much like the sky, in a way. But they will take example from me, from Most Holy. We must think beyond ourselves.” The Seeker unsheathed a dagger, and sliced Rosalea’s bindings. “There will be a trial, but nothing will happen unless we stop this. I can promise no more.”

“I understand.” Rosalea acquiesced, although if it did come to trial, Rosalea wouldn’t take death lying down.

“Come, we will be testing your mark on something smaller than the Breach.”

Rosalea nodded, massaging away the tingling from her wrists. “Lead the way.”

\--

Travelling the Frostbacks in the current chaos was hard. If it wasn’t the cold, it was the demons. If not the demons, then the Breach itself.

They’d been marching for perhaps a quarter of an hour when a pulse ripped apart the barrier around Rosalea’s hand. The pain turned constant and bone deep, travelling along her nerves half up her arm. Rosalea swallowed an oath, and staggered to her feet to move on.

The time between pulses was lessening, Rosalea was informed. She grimaced, and started a count.

The next pulse came with debris striking the ground ahead of them, destroying the bridge. Cussing, Rosalea rolled to her feet, glancing around wildly. There was a caravan meters away. Rosalea leapt for it as a demon of rage reformed under her feet.

Daggers - she chucked one at the demon. Staff - ice natured, she wrinkled her nose, and infused with someone else’s lingering magic. Greatsword - no. Rosalea liked maneuverability, thank you.

Then she saw it, tucked along the length of the side. Halberd. Not perfect, but would work. Grabbing it, Rosalea twisted herself around it, blocked incoming claws with the shaft, then circled it to slice the blade down the demon's body.

Moments later, there was a drawn sword at her throat. “Drop the weapon.”

Truce, it seemed, only went so far.

“I’m going to need something to defend myself with.” She met the Seeker’s stare.

Cassandra sneered at her for several seconds, then capitulated. “Very well. You are right, it is dangerous. And I should trust you to keep your word.”

Rosalea grinned, all teeth. “Great. Mind taking a moment and helping me find something useful?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “A Dalish scavenger. How novel.”

Rosalea sent the woman an incredulous look. A joke. A sarcastic, insultingly stigmatic joke.

“Just for that, I’m going to stop at every useful looking sack from here on out.” Rosalea informed the Seeker. “You will hate me for wasting your time, but I will be thinking back to this moment and only feel satisfaction.”

“Ugh.”

With that said, Rosalea quickly rifled through the various boxes. There was some gold. She was relieved to have found bottles of elfroot potion, and a sack of nuts - of which she promptly ate some, she doubted they’d fed her body more than potions in the dungeons. Then there were more weapons. Rosalea took some daggers, offering some to Cassandra. The woman refused.

Finishing by wrapping another scarf around herself, Rosalea stood from her crouch. “That’s everything.”

“Then let’s get going. We don’t have time to waste.”

Pleased with her petty revenge, Rosalea followed the Seeker. Despite her threat, that one incident was the only time they stopped. She and Cassandra made quick work of all the other demons they encountered, keeping a fast pace. Towards what, Rosalea still didn’t know.

Soon, they were climbing icy steps up the mountainside, where the sounds of fighting echoed unendingly.

There was a great, green distortion in the air. Through it, she could see an endless sea of faces pressing. A great number of spirits of curiosity, but also a great many spirits already turned to despair and rage from the atrocities that had occurred at the Temple.

Four spirits of rage had already slipped through the veil into the waking world. Rosalea took up her spear and waded in, steeling her heart and closing her ears.

In no time at all, there was a lull. Rosalea had just started turning to examine the rift, when a smooth hand grabbed hers and yanked.

“Quickly!” A voice shouted in her ear, “Before more come through!”

Whoever had her hand channeled through it, pushing their magic into and then flowing outwards as if she herself were a focus. There was a deafening hum as it connected to the rift and fought.

The hand holding hers gently folded her open fingers downwards, and Rosalea could feel the connection closing. With dawning comprehension, Rosalea planted her feet, threw her will, and yanked - the door - closed.

Rosalea turned. “How did you…”

“I did nothing.” An out-of-breath voice exulted. “The credit is yours.”

Rosalea drank in the elf before her. His face was flushed with exertion, causing the tips of his nose and ears to shade a delightful pink. His lips were cracking in the cold. He was… so familiar, like she should know him.

“I wouldn’t have known how if you hadn’t forged the connection.” Rosalea protested.

The elf shook his head. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.”

It wasn’t _just_ the mark, Rosalea knew it. But he was correct that it would not have been possible at all without it, and clearly did not wish for credit, so she let it go.

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.” Cassandra cut in with relieved certainty.

“Possibly.” The elf hedged. Looking up at the Breach, massive and all-encompassing above them, Rosalea couldn’t blame him. He turned to her. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

_A key?_

Someone elbowed their way in, the pointed strikes feeling like the thudding of rocks against her hipbone. “Good to know! And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” A dwarf. Perhaps he had been feeling dwarfed? He looked up at her and smiled winningly. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.”

Rosalea watched, amused, as he deliberately infuriated Cassandra. Then what he said caught up to her. Varric Tethras, as in The Champion of Kirkwall? “ _You’re_ with the Chantry?” She blurted out, shocked.

The elf chuckled in her ear. “Is that a serious question?”

Rosalea thought about it, watching the way Varric and Cassandra were bickering. “No. Just shock.” She murmured back. Rosalea cleared her throat. “It’s good to meet you, _Serrah Tethras_.” She smiled mildly at the face he made, and kept it straight through the snort from the elf.

“Aww, Chuckles!” Varric heard the snort apparently, “And here I thought we were _bonding_. Demons, bloodshed… well, we still have a great time in valley ahead of us.”

“Absolutely not!” Cassandra cried, looking disgruntled. Somebody didn’t enjoy prolonged exposure to ribbing, apparently. “Your help has been appreciated, Varric, but-”

He interrupted her. “Have you been down there lately? Your soldiers are outnumbered five to one. You need me.”

Rosalea cleared her throat. “A bolt between the demons and me? Yes please.”

“See, Seeker!” Varric crowed, “ _Somebody_ appreciates Bianca!”

Rosalea’s eyebrows flew to her hairline. “You named your crossbow, Bianca.” A person’s name, not a pet name?

“Bianca-baby and I have been through a lot together.” Varric didn’t explain as he patted the butt of his weapon.

The elf delicately cleared his throat. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

Rosalea went still. She drank in the way he stood, the confidence in his manner and look in his eyes.

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” Varric piped in helpfully.

Long dead habits sprung to her lips. Rosalea wanted to say, _I greet you, Pride. I am Fortitude._ But the era, and the presence of its people in the form of a Seeker of Truth, stayed her tongue.

“ _Rosalea or Lavellan_.” She said instead, and continued roughly. “You seem to know quite a bit about all of this.” Had he, too, survived That Day? The day the great barrier encompassed the world, a net with such backlash it toppled the greatest cities? If so, he would be the first she had encountered in over a century.

The Seeker interjected. “Like you, Solas is an apostate.”

Rosalea rolled her eyes. “Not only is that a ridiculous, derogatory classification to begin with, but technically-”

Solas’ voice spoke over her, “All mages are now apostates, Cassandra.”

Rosalea quickly stifled her snort of amusement.

Solas then turned to her and spoke for himself. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

“Your… invaluable expertise is appreciated.” Rosalea said, glancing at him through her lashes. He was guarded, already shaking his head. She changed the subject. “Assuming we’re successful, what are your plans?”

“Those in power tend to have mutable memories. I merely hope they remember who helped, and those who did not.”

A wise caution. “Regardless, you have my thanks for your actions so far. Both for saving my life, and going out of your way to help.”

“I, ah, hm.” Solas cleared his throat. “Unless we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process, your thanks is unnecessary. I fear there is little more I can do to stabilize the mark. It very well could kill you yet.”

“Well! Now that we’ve aired out all the morbid talk, how about we get this show on the road?” Varric exclaimed with deliberately false enthusiasm.

“Quickly, down this bank.” Cassandra motioned. “The road ahead is blocked.”

They continued down the river embankment, fending off demons with relative ease. In fact, Varric was having more trouble with footing on ice, something Rosalea commiserated with.

“So!” Varric grunted through the impact of a bolt firing from Bianca. “Are you innocent?”

“Of causing an explosion that leveled a mountain?” Rosalea paused for dramatic effect, and to lunge forward with a great thrust of the halberd’s spear point. “No clue.”

“Ha! You’ve got moxie, Deadpan.” Varric cried with glee.

“I’m glad you approve, Serrah Tethras.” Rosalea drawled.

“This is hardly appropriate.” The Seeker declared. “People died on that mountain. We should not _joke_ about it!”

Pausing from where she was picking ichor off the blade of her spear, Rosalea fixed Cassandra with a serious look. “We do know. But circumstances like this, when the scope is just _so horrifying_... Sometimes you have to express it lightly.”

“So you’ve lived through shit? You weren’t in Kirkwall when the Chantry blew up, were you? You don’t strike me as having been in Halamshiral for the purge. And your accent’s all weird but mostly like a Marcher. Ansburg? Ostwick? This is going to bother me.” Varric shot the queries off at a rapid pace.

“You are Dalish, are you not?” Solas picked up the topic with a mild voice. “Did your clan send you here?”

Rosalea blinked rapidly a few times, then held up her spear in a ‘halt’ motion. “Woah. Right, in reverse order. Yes, I am recently of Clan Lavellan, of the Free Marches, near Wycome. They didn’t send me here, I came of my own volition. My accent is ‘all weird’ because I had an accent before I joined the clan. And back to the original topic, I have seen enough tragedies in my lifetime to not pinpoint ‘it was this’.” The last was a lie.

“Really? Was it the Blight? Daisy’s clan went to Kirkwall to escape it, they can’t have been the only ones.”

Flee the Blight? Ironic.

_Refugees from Antiva, broken and crying as the ashes followed them. Grey Wardens, Gaharel and Isseya pleading before them as fellow brothers and sisters. Shouting matches with the Keeper Oruvun and Warden-Commander Senaste. Treaties. Gryphons and halla, pulling together hundreds of aravel towards Starkhaven. Rosalea’s **var-misaan** tripping more than killing the hoard of darkspawn to buy time. _

**I will not flee.**

“I was in Wycome during the Blight.” Rosalea stated ambiguously.

Varric took it at face value. He had just opened his mouth for another round of questioning when they reached the top of the steps and a loud crackling interrupted him.

“Another rift!” Cassandra shouted, charging in front of them.

“We must seal it! Hurry!” Solas urged her. Rosalea thought back to that connection, tried to spark it. Nothing.

“The demons are tethered! We have to clear the path first!” She shouted, and, gathering a well of earth-mana, stomped a foot forward. A riot of stalagmites arose and cascaded from her position towards the demons. Moments later, with a spike of mana, Solas slammed a wall of ice into being, penning the demons.

“Seeker! Dispel them!” With a mighty yell, Cassandra purged the area. Rosalea grit her teeth against the wrench of her mana to keep the stalagmites in existence.

A hail of arrows from above, and the demons dissipated. Panting, wishing she’d grabbed a focus after all, Rosalea looked to the rift. At her side, Solas grasped her hand, gentler than that first touch hours ago. Catching her eyes, he raised it and made a deliberately slow flex of mana. Once a sinuous tether appeared, he let go. Hastily, Rosalea mimicked the pathway before it could break.

Moments later, she yanked the rift closed.

Solas sent her a miniscule nod. “We are clear for the moment. Well done.”

“Whatever that thing on your hand is, it’s useful.” Varric chimed in.

Cassandra thumped on the gate with her fist. “Open the gates! The Demons are gone!”

“Right away, Lady Cassandra!”

It was chaos past the gates. Shouting, scurrying, more wounded lined up to one side, dead on the other. At the far end, Rosalea could just make out the tail end of a platoon at march. She sighed.

A brusque voice spoke up in Orlesian, then repeated himself in a thick accent. “Iz anyvonne eenjured?” At their head shakes, he pushed bottles of potion into their hands. “You are gouing bachk out dere, non? Eet iz not much, but… Take dis.”

“ _Attendez!_ ” Rosalea called to the man in Orlesian. “ _Pardon, avez-vous un baton magique?_ ”

Rosalea took a few minutes to cannibalize the non-elemental acolyte staff the man brought her. Crudely attaching the foci from the staff by melting it to the butt of her halberd, Rosalea tested it. Imperfect, but it flowed better than casting that spell bare had.

Luckily, everyone else was resupplying as well, and soon the quartet was moving through the throng. After a few moments, Rosalea realized Cassandra was leading them directly towards the sound of raised voices.

“ _I_ caused trouble?” A familiar voice was shouting incredulously.

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy - haven’t you all done enough already?”

“You are not in command here!” The woman ( _Leliana?_ Rosalea half remembered the name. This must be the Left hand.) snapped.

“Enough! I- ah. Here they come now.” The man said. Rosalea took him in in a glance. Aged. A brother turned politician. Self-important to a fault. But at the same time, it was probably this man who was organizing the non-militant rabble and refugees in this camp into useful help.

“Chancellor Roderick, this is-”

The man cut her off. Rosalea raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I know very well who she is. I want her in chains, and prepared to be taken to Val Royeaux at once.” Roderick gestured imperiously at Cassandra.

“Ordering me?” Spluttered Cassandra. “You are a glorified clerk! A bureaucrat!”

Roderick's face purpled. “And you are thug! But a thug who _supposedly_ supports the Chantry!”

Leliana interrupted. “We served the Most Holy, Chancellor. As you well know.”

As organizer for the daily affairs of the Divine, he probably _did_ know, Rosalea judged.

“Justinia is dead!” He spat. Unspoken, Rosalea could hear, _and you are not_. “We must elect her replacement immediately.”

Roderick blamed them. And looking at it, Rosalea couldn’t entirely disagree. As Right Hand, he must feel Cassandra should have been there, although the scope of her duties allowed for her to have been directing the incoming Templars. Leliana, however, as spymaster and Left Hand… she should have _known_.

That she did not, was a problem. The Chantry’s networks encompassed more than just one nation.

Rosalea took a step forward. “Chancellor Roderick, was it?” She waited for his glaring nod before continuing. “We’ve tested this,” Here, she waved her left palm, showing off the sickly green glow. “On two rifts so far. We consider the Breach the more pressing issue, and are heading to the site where all of this happened to try and close it there.”

Murmurs erupted around them. Rosalea kept her face impassive, even as she heard, “ _The nerve! That knife-ear!_ ”

Roderick looked her straight on in the eyes. “How? You can’t hope to survive long enough to reach the Temple. Our soldiers are outnumbered by demons.” He turned to Cassandra. “Call a retreat, Seeker.”

“We must get to the temple, stop this before it’s too late.” Cassandra refuted.

“At whose lives?” Roderick challenged, gesturing around him. “Scouts? The Templar’s ragtag group of soldiers already out there, dying as we speak?”

“You can go through the mountains. It will be safer, and my company can reinforce Cullen here, before joining you.”

“We lost contact with an entire squad out there!” Cassandra protested. “That path is too risky!”

Roderick scowled, and had just begun to quibble with the Hands of the Divine when the mark on Rosalea’s hand flared.

“Hnnggg!” She grunted, crouching over and grasping it in pain. Seconds later, Solas was kneeling on the ground at her side, whispering spell after spell.

“We are out of time.” The mage snapped, looking up from his task with a gaze that could scorch the frigid air.

Cassandra sighed, and turned to Rosalea. “What do you think?”

Rosalea looked at her hand, then at the pass. “Serrah Solas.” She murmured quietly.

“Can I climb?” She asked Solas seriously. He met her eyes, magic feeling the edges of the mark.

“It will not be pleasant. And if this happens again...” _I’ll fall_.

“I’ll risk it.” Rosalea declared, then reversed the grip on her palm to grasp Solas’ wrist. Ignoring his surprise, Rosalea tugged him to his feet.

Turning, she looked at Roderick. “Chancellor Roderick, can you evacuate this encampment? If Leliana,” Rosalea shot a glance at the woman, getting a nod. “Can first reinforce the troops, then withdraw to the Temple when the numbers are more manageable, any demons coming this way will have a long way to go to take lives.”

“I.. Yes. But why aren’t you going with the soldiers yourself?” Roderick asked suspiciously.

“From what I’ve seen, this thing,” Rosalea waved a hand, “acts as a beacon. And unless the soldiers are aware of that, it will get ugly when even _more_ demons pour out of the rift.”

“ _What_?” Cassandra asked, turning with wide eyes.

Varric snorted. “What, did you not see how they were all gunning for her, Seeker? Not notice that you had to shout twice as loudly? Conveniently ignore the fact that demons _just happen_ to dive from the sky right at us?”

“Who are you.” Roderick asked, finally looking at her and seeing past the blame.

Rosalea rolled her shoulder. “Rosalea of Lavellan.”

“You know quite a bit for a Dalish.”

Rosalea hmm’d. “Well. I’m educated.” Was all she said, before walking past the man.

“Damn.” Varric muttered. “So cold. But that blows my theory. Unless, were you Circle trained? Ferelden Circle had trouble, didn’t it?”

“Circles couldn’t keep me.” Rosalea claimed, evasively non-committal. Behind her, Cassandra let out a sound like a kettle, and Solas chuckled.

“That just means you got away. I knew a man who got away from the Circle once. Blondie was a good friend.” Varric paused and thought about that statement, then expounded: “Well...Until he wasn’t.”

“You are speaking of my ‘fellow’ saboteur. Anders?” Rosalea assumed, making sure to stress the word fellow. No need for the Seeker to change her mind about her.

Just then, they had reached the cliff face. Lines upon lines of ladders had been driven into the stone. Rosalea motioned the other three ahead of her. “If I fall, I can try and use magic to catch myself. But if I hit someone on my way down…” She trailed off.

Varric picked up the conversation again as he started up the rung. “Yeah, Anders. Said he escaped seven times? eight? I don’t know. He apparently escaped for the last time while the mages were marching to Ostagar, right before shit went down in the Circle. Of course, he got caught a year later at Amaranthine, and was conscripted. Blondie actually did stick through it though; at least for as long as The Hero of Ferelden was Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”

Varric, ever the storyteller even while gasping for breath and climbing vertically up a fucking mountain, decided to segue. “I guess she retired and got married after they fought some sort of giant, psychotic broodmother from the pits of darkspawn-hell. I don’t blame her. Just the thought of those things makes me thank the Maker Hawke and I didn’t run into any when _we_ were in the Deep Roads.”

“You never told me any of this, Varric!” Cassandra spoke up. Was that envy in her voice?

“Well, it was second-hand, Seeker, and you were asking about _Hawke_! Not only that, but I asked you, Seeker. And you said:” Varric paused to change his voice into a mocking accent that sounded more Orlesian than Nevarran. “No, I would NOT like you to recite the tale of the Hero of Ferelden as well.”

“Bullshit!” She snarled. “I never said that!”

“You didn’t.” Varric capitulated easily. “But I asked if you wanted me to, and You. Said. _No_.”

Directly above her, Rosalea could see very faint tremors in Solas’ shoulders. She couldn’t blame him for his silent laughter. Varric Tethras may be a loudmouth, but he was a hysterical one. It was no wonder his novels were as popular as they were.

All too soon, they had reached the top of the cliff face. Rosalea rubbed her aching hand. It was red and inflamed, and at the edges where reality disappeared, it was bleeding.

Solas took her hand and whispered a healing spell. The bleeding stopped but that was about it. The two elves shared grim looks.

“Hey! If you two have time to make cow-eyes at each other, you have time to notice the _demons attacking us_!” Varric shouted, backing up from a nearby cave entrance.

In no time, they were traversing the mine. Serpentstone glimmered like mossy water on the walls, and great stalactites of quartz and lazurite gleamed across the pit. “This is long abandoned.” Rosalea murmured. “Why?”

At her elbow, Solas glanced at her, then on the metals and stones. “At a glance? They got into something they didn’t mean to.”

“Darkspawn?” She guessed.

“Possibly. There’s no true way to tell at this junction.”

“Oh, I could tell you!” Varric said cheerfully from in front of them. “Apparently the locals decided to take a left off of legitimate, and took up _dragon worship_ of all things. I know a gal who knows a guy who swears they called the beast Andraste and everything.”

Rosalea looked at Varric incredulously. “A mine like this, as close to Orzammar as we are, and they turned to cultism when they could have made this a thriving post.”

“Well. Humans are just dumb like that sometimes.” Varric shrugged, then swore as he tripped over a leg. “What the- Seeker. I think I’ve found your missing soldiers.”

Cassandra rushed up to him. “This cannot be all of them.”

“You think the others are hold up ahead?” Varric asked, breaking into a trot.

“We haven’t the time to track them.” Solas said, “Our priority must be the Breach.”

“That should be Deadpan’s judgement call. Glowing hand and all.”

Rosalea snorted, but took the lead. She flared her ears, and listened to the sounds. There, to the right, fighting, and under the clamor, the hum of a rift. She hurried.

With a great downward swing of her halberd, Rosalea sliced a wraith in half.

“Lady Cassandra!” One of the scouts shouted as the last demon was dealt with and they turned to see who had come to their rescue.

“You’re alive!” The Seeker cried in relief.

“Just barely.” The scout said wryly, clutching her elbow.

Rosalea suddenly hissed as the rift bulged outwards. “Save the chitchat for later! We’ve got more!”

A terror demon sprung up from the ground in front of her. Tall and spindly, it screeched in her face. Baring her teeth, she swept the legs out from under it. It sunk into the ground before she could slam the tip of her spear home and she cussed.

Rosalea turned to see a crossbow bolt sank into the demon’s clawing hand right before it could rip up her face. “Ta, Tethras!” Rosalea called.

Meters away, Solas froze the other terror with a gust of icy wind just in time for Cassandra’s shield to charge right into it. The demon shattered.

Looking around, Rosalea saw all the demons dissipated, and focused on the rift. This time it was easy to connect, and with a yank, the door to the fade closed with an electrifying snap.

“Sealed.” Solas said as he came up to her. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“Proficient?” Rosalea echoed. “This thing is doing most of the work.”

“Well, let’s just hope it works on the big one.” Varric interjected.

“Thank the Maker you’ve finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out for much longer.” The soldier enthused as the Seeker raised her to her feet.

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.” Cassandra admitted, knowing if it had been up to her, the Lieutenant would be dead.

“Then, this is…” Hesitant eyes turned to Rosalea.

“Every life we save is worth it.” Rosalea paused, taking in the battered forms before her. She shifted her posture, cleared her throat, and recited the chant. 

 

“All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
From the lowest slaves  
To the highest kings..”

“Is that not how your faith says we should view each other? Why should I not have saved you?”

The soldier blinked rapidly with damp eyes. “Then… you have my sincere gratitude. Maker watch over you.”

“...Shit, Deadpan, you’re Andrastian?” Varric asked, stunned.

“Andrastian?” Rosalea said quietly. “I merely knew a man once. ‘ _I will learn of faith, embrace it in it’s truths, and wield it as a weapon against those who hide and use faith unjust_.’”

“You have taken this wisdom upon yourself.” Solas stated with surprise.

“I myself am not wise.” Rosalea said. “But standing the tide means one must learn from success and mistakes both.”

“Why do I get the feeling that we’re having two completely different conversations here?” Varric asked to no one, shaking his head when the expected no one responded with silence.

“We should move on.” Cassandra ordered. “The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.”

The soldiers dispersed, and they continued onwards. When they reached the next set of rungs, Rosalea paused to gauge the distance they still had before them, but the Temple must have been around the next mountain.

“Are you well?” Solas queried.

“If this thing spreads enough, I don’t think the reality of my flesh will contain it.” Rosalea told him quietly, holding up the mark. From just having used it on the rift moments ago, it had spread an alarming, if miniscule, amount.

“I doubt such a thing was ever meant for flesh.” The elf concurred. “We should hurry.”

As they reached a plateau, they could see the temple remnants in the distance. Varric spoke up. “So, holes in the fade don’t just _accidentally happen_ , do they?”

Solas hummed. “If enough magic is brought to bear, it _is_ possible.”

“Death and magic in any great amount thin the veil. From there, tears are possible.” Rosalea clarified for the dwarf. “But those are unlike these rifts. This is a door left wide open to a blizzard. Regular tears are more like… frayed clothing that you can see through the weak patches, but not a true open rip.”

Varric shuddered. “Huh. Pretending I didn’t hear that… though it does explain some of the shit in Kirkwall... My point is, there are easier ways to make things explode.”

“Indeed, that is something you know quite well, is it not, Serrah Tethras?” Rosalea prodded.

“I’m only curious.” Varric protested.

Cassandra cut in with a scoff. “We can consider the how and why after we seal the Breach.”

Seconds later, they rounded the bend to a clear view of the destruction.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes.” Solas said quietly, drinking in the sight of ruin.

“What’s left of it, anyway.” Varric sighed.

Cassandra looked around, and then gestured to a nearby piece of rubble. “That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Rosalea pursed her lips. “You can’t even tell. Magically, that is. This area is tightly knit, I never would have said, ‘the veil is thin here.’ Hm.” Rosalea had a thought, “I wonder if the physical passing through of the rifts automatically closes them.”

“Good theory, but how about we _not_ test that out.” Varric said rapidly. “Last thing we want to do is lose you in the fade. _Where you might not be able to get out_.”

Rosalea waved her hand dismissively. “It was just a thought.”

“A deadly one.” Varric muttered under his breath.

“I see here’s the woman of the hour.” A pleasant voice rumbled out. A man with an Orlesian style fur mane for his armor stepped forward from a contingent of soldiers. “I heard about what you said to Chancellor Roderick. Anybody who can make that man do more than bluster must be impressive.” He looked at her with warm eyes, which widened in recognition. “Wait, I know you. You were there after the Qunari Invasion. All those Dalish ships, actually sailing for once instead of on steed.”

Rosalea blinked at him. “You must have a long memory. I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.”

“Well, I was wet behind the ears, too full of myself, and clinging to Knight-Commander Meredith's skirts at the time.” He told her matter-of-factly.

Oddly enough, it was the last descriptor that triggered her memory of the man. “Ah, you were the one who looked the other way as we ferreted all those foolish elves out of the city.”

He rubbed the back of his head, a wry smile tugging his scarred lip. “You brought aid, supplies when we needed it. And in a way, it was Kirkwall’s fault that those elves went to the Qunari in the first place. Besides, I was a Templar. Keeping track of non-mages was the job of the City Guard.”

Varric’s expression was getting more and more comical. “You-you and Curly here know each other, Deadpan? And he actually left a good impression - from almost seven years ago? You realize he competed with Broody for mage-hating angst, right?”

Rosalea raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. “Serrah Tethras, I find it hard to believe you yourself were a paragon of virtue at any age.”

Varric grimaced at the word ‘paragon’. “Well no, but…”

“Anybody can be a good man, Serrah Tethras.” Rosalea informed him. “Yes, sometimes it is hard to look past one’s hate, but…” Here, Rosalea looked at Cassandra. “I believe you said it well yourself, mere hours ago, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Me?” Cassandra asked, looking bewildered.

Rosalea mimicked Cassandra’s resting stance, smoothed out her brow, and said in Cassandra’s Nevarran accent: “We must think beyond ourselves.”

“Creepy.” Varric muttered to himself, stroking the butt of Bianca in comfort. Two Cassandra’s was already two too many.

“That is quite the talent you have.” Solas chimed in, looking intrigued.

There was a clamor from behind them, and then Leliana’s voice shouted out with relief. “You are here!”

The remaining troops arrived from the pass with Leliana. Between hers and those with the Templar she recognized from Kirkwall, Rosalea counted two dozen before losing numbers.

“Leliana, have your archers take up positions around the rift.” Cassandra ordered. “Mages, stay out of the way of the archers on the steps to cast. Everyone else will join us in the center.”

Groups split up. The Templar rested a hand on her shoulder. “Good luck down there. Maker watch over you - for all our sakes.” He said, before taking point with his men.

Cassandra came up to her and asked quietly. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

Rosalea glanced up at the Breach. “I’ll try, but I don’t even know if the mark can forge a connection that far.” She admitted.

“No.” Solas spoke up. He jerked his chin at the rift inside the pit, with jagged spikes of calcified magic. “This rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Breathing out slowly, Rosalea nodded and took a few steps down the path. Suddenly, reacting to her familiar presence, spirits boomed in reenactment. “ **Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.** ”

“What was that! What are we hearing?” Cassandra cried out.

“At a guess?” Solas asked rhetorically. “The person who created the Breach.”

Behind her, Varric suddenly stopped dead. “Seeker. That stuff is red lyrium.”

“I see it, Varric.” The Seeker assured him.

“But what’s it _doing_ here?” He pressed.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…” Solas postulated.

Curious about what they stopped over, Rosalea turned around and followed their gaze. “By the Void!” She hissed. “Blighted Lyrium?”

“Blight?” Varric echoed. “I don’t know about that, Deadpan. But it’s definitely evil. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

“I don’t plan on it.” Rosalea said grimly. Suddenly, a booming voice interrupted them.

“ **Keep the sacrifice still.** ” The echo said mildly.

“ **Someone! Help me!** ”

Cassandra started. “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” She looked as though she were ready to burst into the memory and rescue the Most Holy herself.

“ **What do you think you’re doing!** ” Rosalea’s voice snarled through the fade.

“That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…” Cassandra trailed off, looking lost.

Rosalea ignored the chatter and focused on the afterimage flickering in front of them. Three shades standing, in the pose of an imprisonment spell. Two people on the floor, limp like discarded ragdolls. Fellows, or more sacrifices?

One giant of a shade, with a body shape Rosalea had never seen before. Some sort of emaciated Qunari?

Of course, it was the Fade, and these reflections were hardly accurate representations.

Cassandra stepped in front of her. “You _were_ there! Who attacked! And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Rosalea scowled. “I’ve told you: I don’t remember what happened!”

Solas stepped between them. “Cassandra, these are mere echoes of whatever happened here. It has left a powerful imprint within the Fade.”

“More importantly, this rift is not truly sealed, although it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra understood immediately. “That means demons!” She called out to the soldiers. “Stand ready!”

“I hope nobody is afraid of lightning.” Rosalea muttered to herself.

Varric looked over. “Lightning?”

“Like attracts like. Whoever did this was quite the proud individual. Likewise, chances are it will be a pride demon on the other side.” Rosalea explained, before readying her mark.

Rosalea was right. A demon of pride thundered out of the rift. Bigger than any ogre, and with magic to back it up.

At least, Rosalea reflected, it was a mad demon. It was always the spirits that retained their smarts, that kept other, branching qualities that became the deadliest of demons.

Rosalea focused her earth magic, pelting it with fists of stone and calling forth stalagmites while the soldier charged. Pride merely cackled.

“Disrupt the rift!” Solas cried out in her ear. “Break its direct connection to the Fade and it will be vulnerable!”

Focusing, Rosalea did so. Pride collapsed in a heap, steadily hacked and charged at by soldiers. But when it arose again, reinforcements arrived from the fade.

“ _Fenedhis_.” She cursed, and flash stepped away from oncoming rage and terror demons.

Yes, Rosalea reflected, they were definitely attracted to the mark.

“Cassandra! I need a distraction!” She called out.

The woman came bursting in like a bull, shield held fast as she rammed the demons over. Laying down as many repulsion glyphs as she could, Rosalea danced around the other demons as she waited for Pride to come lumbering her way.

Inhaling deeply, Rosalea held it, then exhaled as she slammed the foci onto the ground, propelling Pride with a mind blast. It hit the glyphs, then literally went careening towards the walls.

“Move it!” She called out, and then pulled the rocks into an avalanche the archers barely got away from.

‘Curly’ and Cassandra charged to where it was buried, and in the most common way to kill things, chopped off Pride’s head.

Rosalea turned to the rift. Raised her hand, tethered, pulled- pulled- the rift was fighting her. It had purpose, it should be open.

 **No.** Not like this.

Rosalea planted her feet, snarled gutturally, and yanked.

The backlash rocked everyone to the ground.

\--

Solas approached the prisoner.

She was on her knees now, arm still locked upwards in place. This was the second time he had seen this curious rigidity, even after, it soon became apparent, passing out.

He maneuvered her gently, relaxing her pose and laying her down, then called for the Seeker.

“It is done, for now. She lives, but we must ensure she stays stable.”

Cassandra nodded. “I will confer with Commander Cullen and Leliana. We will arrange for transport for the wounded and return to Haven.”

Nodding, he watched impassively as she marched off, then knelt to gather Rosalea’s staff.

Not that it truly was a staff. It was a halberd with a staff foci crudely attached to the bottom side.

When Solas had first seen her standing, fighting without the aid of magic, he had wondered if she truly were not as trained as he imagined when tending to her. She had used the halberd almost exclusively, using its length to outmaneuver and nimbly redirect enemies, and the head to finish them off.

Gradually, the Dalish had used more and more magic. Eclipsing in this battle, where she used it almost exclusively.

Solas wondered if perhaps, she used it on threat level accordingly.

Examining the staff, Solas stilled as he noticed the foci was cracked in half, two of the prongs gone. Thinking back to the heat of battle, Solas couldn’t even pinpoint when it happened.

Great feats of magic, with a broken, improper staff that no doubt hindered more than helped.

There were so many things about the elf that didn’t fit.

Solas would have to wait and watch, and hope it would align in his favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried very, very hard to make the DAI prologue everyone has played and read not be boring. Verbatim is boring, so I was like, you know what, ALL THE DIALOGUE! Plus character fleshing for real responses. And, of course, Varric. Because he helped. A lot.
> 
> By the way, Varric knows about Haven because Isabela wheedled it out of Zevran, who was there.
> 
> I may or may not have a thing for holding Solas' hand.
> 
> If anybody knows French, I’m terribly nervous about the one line I translated. Please tell me if it makes sense. I figured if baguette magique was wand, then baton magique could be staff.
> 
> For Elvhen: I tried my best. It took as long to write those lines as it did to write half of this chapter. Unless I get help, I might drop more than minor Elvhen. Especially as I would have a good sentence, but a semi complex word just wouldn't exist. Then I had to piece it together and the final result is like: HEY! Use your suspension of disbelief and imagine this all flows perfectly!
> 
> About the halberd. I find the weapon choices in dragon age a bit boring. Many weapons exist in the past. Rosalea actually fights with a Yari, which is a japanese polearm with a wakizashi attached. In Elvhen, I figure the word would be Var'misaan. Longsword pole. Or something. Var'misu is spear, but misu is like little blade and... Anyway. She uses another weapon as well, but those are gone.
> 
> If anyone has played Kingdoms of Amalur, think of the last magical weapon you can use. Staff, scepter... and what she'll use. Gameplay wise, it's my all time favorite weapon. Well, that and the faeblades, but since you can only use assassin strike to kill with actual daggers it looses cool points.
> 
> My shoddy Elvhen is, of course, in hovertext inside the story itself, but I have it here for the people on mobile and for people to pick apart. People on Mobile, let me know the formatting is Okay.
> 
>    _Savhalla, da’len._  
>     _Ma ela vian’ena’inan._  
>      _Tel’da’len._  
>      _Tel’dhru’ma._  
>      _Ma britha ir’da’un_  
>      _Thuast sah’lin nera’la,_  
>     _Mar da’lav rya him’landarem._  
>      _Ee. …Tel’dhru ar halani’ena’sal._  
>      _Ara sou haimu_  
>     _Ahnsul Templar banal’varem’sha._  
>      _Eolasasha. Ela’em?_  
>      _Vin, sathem halani._  
>      _Tel’thanathe. Ir abelas._  
>      _Telir arias sura…_  
>      _That, brithasha ol’em._    
>      _La giremun i’telam’dhruelan,_  
>      _ara ha’lam dinemah silan._  
>      _Ir nulam…_  
>      _Esahn…? Din._  
>      _Min viras._  
>      _Ma nuvenin._ |  Hello, young one.  
>  You may open your eyes now.  
>  I’m not a child  
>  I don’t believe you.  
>  You appear very young.  
>  However enjoyable this is,  
>  Your hand must be treated.  
>  Ah. I don’t believe I can help again.  
>  I lack the energy  
>  After the Templars banished it.  
>  I understand. May I?  
>  Yes, please heal me.  
>  It’s useless. I’m very sorry.  
>  You made a barrier…  
>  Still, it appears better.  
>  Well, since I’ve been enslaved by fanatics,  
>  Death is my destination regardless.  
>  My regret is great…  
>  Who are…? No.  
>  Just go.  
>  As you wish.  
> ---|---  
>   
> **This is your Solas Disclaimer™:** He's not going to just pick up on Rosalea being Elvhen. This is 100% Plot Device, and 100% Canon. I decided on this route partially for the _sheer comic relief_ and mostly because, according to **Cole** , "You're too bright. Like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes you more. But past it..."
> 
> Cole is a sweetheart who burns his eyes out. Solas is, at this point, dismissive of the average person of Thedas, and just thinks "Anything Unique can be chalked up to the Anchor."
> 
> Please leave contribution in the little box.


	3. Tallo's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spirit-Born Sharth tries to educate Fortitude.
> 
> And:
> 
> The people of Haven need more from Rosalea than she wishes. She's not one hundred percent behind this Inquisition, and practices some minor escapism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go reread the prologue. It'll take only a minute but it's important. Part of it is I added a bit for scene setting, but also I really need feedback on the readability of switching between Sharth and Cunning. I don't want to write "The former Spirit of Cunning" every single time. 
> 
> I'm trying to find a balance, as at this point, Fortitude looks at him and sees Cunning, but he himself only thinks in terms of being Sharth. Mostly. Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly cunning, it shows.

* * *

**\-- A Spirit’s Tale: II --**

* * *

The Eluvian was cracked. Upon seeing it, Sharth wilted from where he stood.

Fortitude faded into view again. “ _You wished to travel. _”__

“Yes.” The elf sighed. He looked over his shoulder mournfully at the blackened surroundings.

“ _We will go to Lingearaj._ ” The spirit told him, floating around Cunning twice before heading back into the heart of ruin.

Sharth stayed rooted to the ground, eyes staring out at nothing.

Fortitude appeared before Cunning again in a blink.

“ _Lingearaj will have what we need._ ” It assured him with confidence.

The elf looked at the spirit, heartbreak in his gaze. “The Phoenix-King… was a casualty of my brother.” He told the spirit quietly.

“...When I followed Ithamir… I hurried past and dismissed much destruction within the Valley. But then I saw them.” He said, lost in memory. “He was collapsed, pinned to his throne atop the crag. I shall never forget the sight of his eyes, darkening with hate, turning his fires to rage. Then…”

A bone chilling rattle that echoed against the walls of the valley.

Fortitude looked at Cunning with an unblinking gaze. “ _Your resolve faltered._ ”

“...It did.” Sharth admitted. “And the lord of this valley paid for it with his existence.”

“Such an action I could not dismiss.” Sharth said firmly, followed by an echo of desolation. “But I was too late.”

“ _We will do better._ ” Fortitude assured him.

Sharth sighed, and looked back at the Eluvian. “First, will have to find a way out here.”

“ _Are you not a body-changer?_ ” Fortitude asked of Cunning. “ _Many Spirit-Born are such. Lingrearaj said so._ ”

 _Lingrearaj is dead!_ Sharth wanted to snap. But it was a Spirit before him, a being without true personhood to give it complex emotions. Instead, embracing the depth that was his former aspect, Cunning shook his head. “I am not.”

“ _Then I will teach you._ ” Fortitude offered.

A spirit that knew the mechanics of body-shaping? Sharth thought incredulously. Fortitude was very odd for a spirit, especially as it was not one of learning. “How do you know of it?”

“ _Lingreraj showed me._ ” Fortitude told him.

Of course. The Phoenix-King.

But, Sharth realized, Fortitude seemed to know quite a bit from the old elf. Cunning wondered what else Fortitude could tell him.

“I’d be happy to learn more.” Sharth said eagerly, the slightest of grins pulling at his lips.

* * *

Rosalea opened her eyes blearily. What…?

“She’s waking!” A voice snapped out. “Send for that elf!”

It was useless though. She slipped back unconscious.

* * *

A great bird landed in an army encampment. “Men! To arms!” The Field Marshall snapped.

There was a great swirling of magic, and then standing before them was a familiar sight. They hesitated, but the spells hovering in the air before them shot off.

A glowing form stepped out from inside of the elf, taking the brunt of the blast without flinching.

The Field Marshall stepped forward. “Captain Sharth.” He said slowly, with narrowed eyes.

“Esanan.” Sharth greeted, placing a hand on Fortitude’s shoulder and stepping around the Spirit.

“I was unaware you were so accomplished.” Esanan commented.

“A lot can happen in three days.” Sharth told the other elf with deliberate ease. “My brothers actions necessitated finding an alternate means of travel.”

“And where is Captain Ithamir?”

Sharth pursed his lips. “Rogue.” He said with great reluctance. “I tracked him to the Sacred Fire-King’s Crag. There, I found he had defeated Lingrearaj and sacrificed him. After, he laid waste to the valley and all of its inhabitants. He used their deaths in a great ritual, then physically stepped into the Beyond.” Sharth reported to his superior.

“I see. And your companion? The Field Marshall gestured at Fortitude.

“A survivor.” Sharth explained without offering any more information. Fortitude stayed still, eyes on the elves that were still at attention.

“You vouch for it?” Esanan queried. At the Captain’s nod, the Field Marshall waved his hand to put them at ease.

“What Captain Ithamir has done is unfortunate. But I will withhold my judgement until we see his actions upon return.” The Field Marshall decided. “Magic of such magnitude will have been taxing. You may retire for the day.” Esanan said graciously. “Tomorrow, I expect you to meet with the Third Division. There are reports of unrest near Kal’Sharok, regarding tremors beneath the earth.”

Sharth bowed, raising the back of his hand to touch his forehead briefly, then withdrew.

Only when he and Fortitude were alone did the elf let down his own guard. He walked over to the trunk and started rifling through it agitatedly.

“ _I Greeted you as Cunning. Was I wrong?_ ” Fortitude asked after a moment of silence.

“No,” The elf replied, then elaborated. “Yet we who have chosen flesh are defined by more than just the facts of our spirit. This often requires a new name.”

“ _You are still Cunning._ ” Fortitude confirmed.

“Were you not aware of this? Lingrearaj was a name, was he not?” The former Spirit of Cunning asked.

“ _Lingrearaj was a title that embodied it’s fact and virtues._ ” Fortitude claimed after a moment of thought.

“And is that not what Sharth is?” Cunning pressed. “And you do not call Lingreraj Rage because he accepted it in his heart before death. To you, he was the same.”

“ _He was not Rage. Elvhen are immutable._ ” It argued.

The former Spirit of Cunning set down his shirt and begged for patience. “No, we are not.” He denied. “We are merely multifaceted. Small changes have less impact on the overall whole.”

There was silence in the tent for several moments.

“ _You welcome this. Why?_ ” Fortitude wondered. “ _To change into that which you are not is abhorrent and leads to madness._ ”

“Because it isn’t something we aren’t. It is accepting that we are more.” Sharth tried in vain to explain.

Fortitude looked stubborn. “ _I am unyielding._ ”

Sharth tried for several moments, but eventually rationalized that in this, Fortitude would have to experience change itself, gradually.

What other attributes could Fortitude hold? If Fortitude were so unchanging as it claimed, could it ever achieve the pinnacle of spirit transformation, Elvhen?

“I will get you to understand it in time.” Cunning concluded, already thinking ahead.

 

* * *

**\-- The Heart of Haven --**

****

* * *

The next time Rosalea opened her eyes, the world felt steadier.

Muffled birdsong filtered through the window to outside. The room itself was a touch on the warm side, but the recollection of the freezing dungeon and even icier mountains caused Rosalea to burrow further under her covers.

The Breach had caused the very air to vibrate, Rosalea realized, though she hadn’t been aware of the sensation until it was gone. She no longer felt like her hair was standing on end, waiting to jump away from her skin. She sighed for a job-well-done and curled up tight.

Then she abruptly whipped back the covers and leaped up as the door opened with a loud creak.

The sounds of a full tray hitting the floor with a clatter echoed in the small room. Wide, elven eyes took each other in for several beats of silence.

The slim girl dropped to her knees in obeisance. “I-I-I!” She stuttered heavily. “Ah’m so sorry m’lady! Ah didn’t know yer awake, Ah swear!”

“What’s going on.” Rosalea asked sharply. “Why are you kneeling.”

Big eyes went wet, before it was blinked away by the trembling resolve of elven servants. “Th-theh say yeh saved us. Tha’ yeh healed tha hole in tha sky, m’lady.”

Rosalea frowned and glanced out the window, although there was no view of the sky. “It’s gone, then?”

The girl shook her head and stuttered out, “M-mozzly, m’lady. Theh say… theh say it stopped growing, m’lady.”

Rosalea pursed her lips. “Good. Now get up, girl.” She chided, gentling her tone. “I don’t bite to be mean, and I want to know what’s going on out there. How long have I been unconscious?”

The servant made to get up, but then accidentally knocked over the fallen pot and went white. She lost all nerve, stuttering out “I-I-I! Lady Pentaghast! She wants te see yeh!” She scrambled up and edged backwards. “At once, she said!”

The door slammed shut.

Rosalea closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Well, it was to be expected, she supposed, this close to Orlais. Her People were sad, more than anything. It was hard to withhold the pity and devise ways to help them.

Righting the tray and salvaging what was still edible, if bruised, Rosalea eyed the chest by the window. The hideous scarf she’d found was peeking out the lid, so she debated whether she should arm herself, against either threats or the cold, or go as is.

…In this truly ridiculous ensemble.

How very Orlesian, all these buttons.

Rosalea grimaced, but merely threw her scarves on, then opened the door to the cold.

Not even two steps out, and she saw a hoard of people lined up to her door.

Void take them. She should have changed, 'At once' be damned.

Fake it and make it, Fortitude. Raising her chin, relaxing her posture, Rosalea _stalked_ forward.

The crowd parted in a wave of worshipful whispers.

Too late, Rosalea realized she didn't know where the Right Hand would be at this time of day. Or, well, at all really.

Chantry. Even if the Seeker _wasn’t_ in the chantry, it would be the only reasonable place for a meeting other than the cabin Rosalea had just woken up in. And that would be presumptuous.

Glancing furtively around, Rosalea knew she had to figure this out before she came up to the bend. There was a lake in Haven, but, she realized as she went through her memories of her march through the angry mob, they had gone downhill. Top of the village, over looking it like a proud parent.

Rosalea turned left.

Minutes later, trailed by a cloud of people, Rosalea arrived at the chantry doors. One enterprising individual skirted around her and raced ahead to have the honor of opening the doors for her.

He hyperventilated at her minuscule nod of appreciation.

Overdid it. Void.

It was quieter inside the chantry, none daring to follow her in. Granted, the eyes of every Brother and Sister within were still on her, but it was far less intense than her march.

Not the best chantry layout Rosalea had ever seen. Not that she expected the likes of the Grand Cathedral, or one of the many ostentatious chantries from the major capitals. Haven was, after all, in the middle of nowhere.

Plus, while it was a pilgrimage stop, it had been eclipsed by _the_ destination. The Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Haven wasn’t meant to hold the thousands that temple had held, and its chantry reflected that.

Candles burned along the wings. Further down on the side, she could see smaller doors, perhaps the dungeon, and the lay sisters quarters. At the far end was a set of great double doors. Rosalea headed there.

Muffled voices trickled through the doors. Stop, observe, listen, lifetimes upon lifetimes of habits told her.

Eyes were still on her. Rosalea didn’t falter, and instead swung the door open without pause.

What followed was the petty squabbles of a power play the likes of which Rosalea had witnessed many a time in her long years.

When they confirmed what Rosalea had suspected - her new status of hero - she clenched her jaw to stop a spasm.

“ _Chosen!_ ” She spat in disgust. “If you think for _one second_ that I’m just going to let you raise me up only to be hushed up and forgotten like history has done to Garahel, to Ameridan, like _your Chantry_ has done to Shartan…” Rosalea’s eyes burned with anger. “You have another thing coming, Seeker Pentaghast.

I am Dalish. _Nele vaslasa sal’uth._ ” She finished with a stubborn lilt accenting her voice.

“Educated indeed.” Chancellor Roderick murmured quietly, eyes sharp as he took her in.

“I have not forgotten your heritage, Rosalie, but you cannot deny that no matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Rosalea asked exasperated.

“Regardless of Cassandra’s belief,” Leliana interrupted smoothly, “so long as the Breach is in the sky, the fact remains that you are our only hope to close it.”

Roderick scoffed. “This is hardly just your decision to make.”

Cassandra stalked over to the wall, withdrew something, turned and slammed it on the table.

Rosalea felt her blood draining from her face.

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor?” Cassandra spat in the man's face. “This is a Writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

The Seeker splayed her fingers across the front in emphasis, looking like an angry bull as she glared daggers across the table. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

The only thing worse than an Inquisition, Rosalea reflected, was a Holy War. With the Templars in disorder, there could be no March. But to the Divine, it must seemed to have been one of the only answers, should her Conclave have failed. As it had.

An Inquisition called as a contingency plan.

This could turn out good, or very, very bad.

White noise filled Rosalea’s ears. She didn’t notice until there were eyes pinned on her, expectant, awaiting a response.

“I bring up Ameridan and your response is to literally put me in his shoes.” She managed to choke out weakly.

“No, we have no Inquisitor.” Leliana said softly, and glanced at Roderick’s mulish expression. “And with little to no Chantry support, we need help. Help _you_ can provide.” She entreated.

That still sounded like _figurehead_ to Rosalea. She swallowed.

“You want to restore order.” She looked to Cassandra. “I already promised to help all I could with this crisis.”

“Then you’ll…” Cassandra trailed off hopefully.

“I’ll do what I can to help.” Rosalea committed firmly.

They weren’t quite equal to equal, in either of their eyes, but they shook firmly on the promise all the same.

* * *

Near two weeks pass in a flurry of activity.

“Walk with me, girl.” Chancellor Roderick had demanded a day or so later. He led her around Haven, through the tavern, around the soldiers, then back up to the chantry. When they were ensconced in a small confessional, he turned to her and questioned: “What did you see.”

Rosalea wasn’t the most observant of people. Not naturally, at least. There were times when body language didn’t register against her own opinions, where she cut that fluid emotionalism off from registering. But taking a walk, just to watch people? She could do that, at least. Anybody could.

“They’re directionless.” Rosalea said. “They like the idea that the Inquisition will help, but they don’t know how they themselves are part of the whole.”

“Good.” Roderick said. “Keep that in mind. Now here is what I want you to do.”

Rosalea found herself on the trail to the Temple of Sacred Ashes on three separate occasions in the first week that followed, each time returning with carts full of bodies exhumed from the ruin.

Great pyres put them to rest in the eyes of Haven’s inhabitants. Hundreds of people who looked at her as though she were Andraste reborn, and despite her misgivings, Rosalea found herself calling out the Chant as she never had before, ashes of the dead thick in her throat.

The inhabitants of Haven took comfort in her words and actions. Mere days before, they would have found comfort in her death, instead.

After the last time, Rosalea made it a point to be busy every time she saw Chantry robes, never mind Roderick himself. The cantankerous human was testing her, and pushing forward an image Rosalea frankly wanted little to do with.

She was also accosted for fittings, ‘happened’ to be in the Chantry during song-hour, consulted with on reports about rift locations around the Temple, trekked out to close them, was miserable overall and itching to get away from these fanatics. Yesterday.

Rosalea cast a faint illusion on her face, tugged her scarf up, adjusted her posture, and approached Threnn.

“You here for work or for help? I swear if one more idiot calls you ‘knife-ear’ I’ll flay them. We need good workers, not cowed ones.” The quartermaster said savagely. “Adan needs more elfroot, the bastard goes through our supply of it like it were water. He also says he ‘lost a book or scrap of paper’ out beyond the tree line. Some recipe. Can you handle it?” The woman asked brusquely.

“Yes’m. I’ll head out now.” Rosalea meeped out.

“Good. And if you find the loggers clearing while you’re out there, hang a banner where it’s visible and mark where it was when you’re back. Some clumsy fool spilled grease all over the old map.”

The guards at the gate only squinted at her papers before waving her out, and then Rosalea scurried out of Haven with a sense of relief.

Picking elfroot was familiar and easy. It was a hardy plant, with roots that dug deep beneath the surface for survival. It didn’t grow year-round, but it would pop up at the first sprout of warmth it received, so finding some was easy enough even in the Frostbacks.

Rosalea was further delighted to find some creeping willow tangling in the ground around the elfroot as well. Well suited to the cold, it was a wonder the nugs hadn’t gotten there first.

She had been out for perhaps four hours, having a stuffed basket and a marked map, when she heard the faint sounds of an argument. Two people in armor were off the road and just beyond the tree line.

“What do you mean, leave?” A voice asked, incensed.

“See reason, Lysette. We cannot stay here!” He argued back.

“And why not!”

“We are Templars!” The man stated as if it were obvious.

“What does that even mean anymore?” She demanded, pushing his hand away from her shoulder.

“We should be out there stopping mages, not with this… this blasphemous organization!”

“Fighting amongst ourselves, you mean? We should be _protecting_ mages! This Inquisition, it aims to stop the war, not further it!”

“Throw your lot in with that deserter of a Commander if you must, Lysette, although I wish it were not so. Better to leave than stay with this… _Inquisition_.” He spat with disgust. “I am leaving. I hope to see you in Val Royeaux.”

“You are awfully quick to dismiss the people who saved your life, Mattrin.” She called out as the man stomped away.

The woman let out a shuddering breath and leaned against the tree.

Rosalea stepped carefully up to her. “Will you be alright?” She asked gently.

“Oh.” Lysette said dully. “I suppose you heard all that.”

“It must be hard.” Rosalea soothed. “Losing an ally in all this chaos when you didn’t have to.”

“Yes.” She admitted. “But I always knew we were Templars for different reasons. I was the one who urged Mattrin to attend the Conclave. His hesitance probably saved our lives as much as Inquisition soldiers in the aftermath.”

“But who are you?” Lysette asked in wonder, looking up at her ears with curiosity. “It is not often an elf offers me comfort in despair.”

Rosalea smiled slightly, and held out a hand. “Sala, of the Free Marches.”

“I’m Lysette, from Denerim.” The Templar shook the hand without a grimace. “You are a Mage, then? Did you too survive the explosion or its aftermath?”

“Yes. How did you know I’m a mage? After recent events, I felt that it was important to see for myself what stability the Divine would bring.”

“After the Blight came to a head at Denerim, I found myself particularly sensitive to the auras of darkspawn and mages.” Lysette explained.

Rosalea’s eyes flew up. Sensory abilities from Blight exposure?

“It is ironic that your reasons are much the same as my own for attending the Conclave.” Lysette continued without pause. “So many people see Mages and Templars as opposite and therefore hostile. But we are interconnected in so very many ways, I find that shameful.”

“That’s why you’re staying.” Rosalea surmised.

“It is. What else do I have to go back to? A fractured order? My father’s vocation in Denerim, cobbling shoes? I would rather stay and help fix what my Order had a hand in breaking in the first place.”

“Have you spoken with the Commander yet?” Rosalea questioned curiously.

“No, I was waiting, to convince Mattrin… but I suppose I have no reason to delay now.”

“Wait.” Rosalea halted her, thinking very quickly about this strong, tainted girl. “I think you should speak with Sister Nightingale instead. I know they’re having a lot of trouble moving around with all the fighting, and if you can sense it, the forward scouts could use you.”

Lysette blinked at her. “I thought you looked too important to be picking elfroot in the forest.” She admitted. “Will I be joining you?”

“That would be up to the Nightingale, unfortunately.” Rosalea hedged. “But I can always ask.”

The human nodded. “It will be good to have a friend.” Lysette said decisively. “That basket looks quite full. Have you eaten?”

* * *

Days later, Rosalea was called into the chantry for a meeting with the Inquisition heads. Cassandra met her at the doors with a smile for her promptness and a glare for her shadows.

Pursing her lips, Rosalea flexed her hand.

“Does it bother you?” Cassandra asked in concern.

“Mm…. it’s not painful anymore.” Rosalea told the Seeker. “Once it stopped growing, the physical pain of flesh turning to ether disappeared. I’m actually lucky… this thing seemed to have turned my flesh into spirit without taking into account what is around it. The bones, the tendons - they all could have just stopped working because their reality changed.”

Cassandra had stopped and was staring at her hand with a pole-axed expression.

“Did Serrah Solas not tell you?” Rosalea asked curiously.

“He must have,” Cassandra admitted, “I knew it was killing you. But the realities of what it was doing seems vastly different than I imagined.”

"It was a bit like being turned inside out. Except in the end, I wouldn't even be a Spirit, just the Mark." Rosalea managed a tight smile. “At least now, it and the Breach are stable.”

“Yes. More importantly, you’ve given us time. Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed – provided the mark has more power.”

“That’s hardly going to be easy to come by.” Rosalea stated thoughtfully. “Do you have something in mind?”

“We do. And that is what we are here to discuss right now.” The Seeker told her, and opened the doors. She gestured Rosalea in, then offered up introductions. “I believe you are familiar with Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisitions forces.”

Cullen gave her a wry smile. “Such as they are, and getting thinner by the day apparently. Leliana says you’ve stolen one of my recruits.” He teased her.

Cassandra continued, “This is lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“Andaran Atish’an.” A dark skinned woman said gracefully.

Rosalea blinked twice, then replied. “ _Mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth._ ”

“Oh!” Josephine cried out delightedly. “I’m afraid I don’t speak that much, you already heard its entirety. May I ask what that means?”

Cassandra kept talking. “And you already know Leliana, of course.”

Rosalea glanced at the redhead. “The Left Hand. Yes.”

“She is our spymaster.” Cassandra said bluntly. Rosalea, Leliana and Josephine all collectively winced.

“You also already know Chancellor Roderick. He is our liaison between the remaining Chantry support and the Inquisition.” Roderick glowered at them all from his corner, clearly disapproving of the entire matter.

“Our Herald is, of course, Rosalie La Velle.” Cassandra finished introductions with a sigh.

“Um.” Rosalea said eloquently. Cullen ran a hand over his face, and Leliana’s lips pressed together in laughter.

“Cassandra, that’s not quite correct.” Leliana let out after stifling her giggle.

“What?” Hazel eyes glanced from person to person.

“My name.” Rosalea clarified. “It’s Rosalea of Lavellan.”

“Isn’t that just what I said? Is it the of? Rosalie of La Velle?”

“No, it’s-”

“Oh! I get it now. Rosalie of the Vale! I know that much Orlesian, it makes sense now.”

“Cassandra, please!” Leliana cried out helplessly, covering her mouth from laughter.

“Miss Lavellan, I am so sorry!” Josephine all but blurted out.

“M-maybe we should move on.” Cullen cleared his throat. “I’m sure Rosalie-ah...” He withered under her glare.

“Yes.” Rosalea cleared her throat pointedly. “Why am I here, exactly?”

“As I mentioned,” Cassandra said obliviously, “your mark needs more power in order to close the Breach for good.”

“Which means we should approach the rebel mages for help.” Leliana piped in.

“And I still disagree!” Cullen argued, “The Templars could serve just as well.”

“We need more power, Commander.” Cassandra voted. “Enough power poured into that mark-”

“Might as well kill us all!” He replied heatedly. “Templar’s could suppress the Breach, weaken it so-”

Leliana stepped between them and scoffed. “Pure speculation.”

“I.” Cullen ground out. “Was a Templar. I know what we’re capable of.” He said resolutely.

Had they been like this all day before she was called in, Rosalea wondered, catching Josephine’s eye. The other woman shrugged at her helplessly - not that the woman actually shrugged, she was too high class for that - and moved to interrupt.

“The point is moot nonetheless. Neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has been silent on all matters of the Inquisition, but rumblings from Val Royeaux does not look to be in our favor.”

“It does not help that some are calling you “The Herald of Andraste,” and that frightens the Chantry. Several remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy. That Chancellor Roderick has not taken it upon himself to disprove these rumors is creating a fissure among the Faithful.”

“You’re encouraging this.” Rosalea said flatly to the man. She’d already known this, of course, he’d had her presiding over several funerals; but to hear the politics behind it was unsettling.

Roderick puffed up. “You are clearly a very unique individual, Rosalea of Lavellan.” He said snootily. At least he said her name right. “But I have seen that you know the Chant of Light within your heart. Clearly, you were chosen for a reason.”

Rosalea didn't agree. “So they’re calling me the Herald of Andraste.” She finished flatly.

Cassandra tried to explain further, “People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

“Everyone, from commoner to king, is talking about you.” Leliana spoke with a small smirk.

“And between all of you, you’ve not stopped it.” She sighed.

“It’s quite a title, isn’t it?” Cullen said sympathetically. “How does that make you feel?”

“Oh, you know.” Rosalea said sarcastically. “Like any other Elven figure of history. I just hope I won’t end up like Fen’harel.”

“The Dalish God of Deceit?” Leliana wondered, her eyes tracing the markings upon Rosalea’s face.

“Rebellion.” Rosalea corrected automatically. “To the victor goes the spoils, or the kind light of history in this case. He saved an innumerable amount of lives, yet one action in extreme eclipsed it all. Wonder turned to hate in an instant. And he wasn’t the only one. I believe I’ve already brought up Shartan.” Josephine started scribbling, to Rosalea’s bemusement.

“History may not be kind,” Cassandra admitted heavily, “But we need you.”

“The people are desperate for any sign of hope.” Leliana concurred. “For some, that is you.”

“Hence the need to boost our Chantry support.” Rosalea surmised thoughtfully. “As the Templars, at least, respond to them. And the Mages will not speak with us without a show of power able to protect them.”

Rosalea drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the table. Tried to think of any way she could contribute beyond the Chantry. At this juncture, not much.

“There is something you can do.” Leliana spoke up. “A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

“She asked for me specifically?” Rosalea asked skeptically.

“She is a humble woman, this Giselle.” Roderick spoke up. “But you are right to beware, she is cunning indeed. But so long as her agenda matches up with ours, you will be fine.”

“Yes.” Leliana concurred. “From what I hear, she is a kind soul, and not one to involve herself in violence. You will find her in the Hinterlands, near Redcliffe. I believe she is stationed at a Crossroads near the King’s Road fighting.”

“In the meanwhile, we need more recruits to get a running start. We can’t do a thing without manpower behind us.” Cullen said.

“So what, am I to stop at every town and point of interest and pound a banner in the ground to garner interest?” Rosalea asked half skeptically. Her poor brethren were going to pin their fingers raw, sewing that much canvas if that were the case.

“It’d be a start.” Cullen said with a little laugh. “The rest will have to be leading by example, I’m afraid. Much tougher than flags and whispers.”

Josephine cleared her throat delicately. “If I may have your attention. These are several replies and inquiries into our Inquisition thus far…”

* * *

“Sala,” Lysette said the next evening over their bowls of hearty stew. “I leave in the morn for the Hinterlands. Are you going with?”

Rosalea faltered her spoon half up, then kept eating calmly. “No. I’ll be out there, but not the first wave.”

She looked across the table at the human, “Do you mind doing me a favor while you’re out there? You can say no, of course.”

Lysette laughed at her. “I can see the curiosity burning in your eyes, mage. Tell me, and I will try.”

“I know you sense mages, and darkspawn. Sister Nightingale and I were hoping you could sense demons, too - maybe even the rifts themselves, although personally I believe that magic is different. Still, I’m sure the Herald would love a map detailing where to go first. But there is something else that’s been cropping up.”

In quiet words, Rosalea began to describe the red lyrium that had been found at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. “You’re a Templar, or were almost one anyway, so you already know the dangers regular lyrium has. Serrah Tethras says it’s evil. I don’t want you going near it either. Any you sense or find, mark it and stay away from it, do you hear me?”

Rosalea didn’t know if Lysette had begun taking any lyrium before the vote, but she wasn’t going to danger her friend with ignorance.

After Lysette had promised, Rosalea circled back around to the curiosity of her problem. “And I’m wondering if you had a parent who was a Grey Warden.”

“Sala, why are you so convinced I have a hero’s heritage?” Lysette asked, a frown in her brows.

“Because you can sense Darkspawn, mostly.” Rosalea explained. “Grey Wardens are capable of it, and they alone are partially immune to the Blight. It still kills them, but… over a very long period of time. If you became tainted in the Battle at Denerim, you would not have survived.

Unless, of course, you were already partially immune to the Blight.”

“But I sense more than just darkspawn. You mages glow to my eyes, and the learning of a Templar came easily to me!” Lysette argued against the idea. “I know who my parents were, my father is a cobbler, Sala. That is far from a Grey Warden.” Lysette said incredulously.

“And your mother?” Rosalea pressed.

“No, I doubt she was.” Lysette said firmly, then hesitated and said a little quietly. Were Rosalea not an elf, she wouldn’t have been able to hear the woman over the rowdy noise in the tavern. “You might have actually guessed already… but I am elf-blooded, Sala.”

Rosalea had, actually, already guessed that. It was hardly visible behind Lysette’s round, kind features. But her dark eyes gleamed in the low light, and her ease around Rosalea spoke for itself. Not to mention, Lysette’s description of ‘seeing’ mages was familiar to her, something elves in tune with their bloodlines could do ages past.

“I know.” Rosalea mouthed with a quick smile.

Lysette breathed out a quiet sigh.

Rosalea still wanted to push, to figure out what it was about this human woman that drove her to fits of curiosity. But, she realized, it was hardly _nice_ to do so to a new friend.

Rosalea changed the topic. She could indulge her curiosity later. Perhaps if she ever went to Denerim, she mused, Rosalea could ask the parents themselves.

Until then, things were too busy in Haven already.

* * *

“There you are!” Varric’s voice cried out as he spotted her exiting the tavern. “I’ve been looking for you all week, and every time I do see you, I turn around and you’re somewhere else.”

Rosalea slowed, and looked from Varric to Lysette.

“Have you been avoiding little ol’ me?” Varric asked with a grin as he half trotted up.

“If you have been avoiding this man, Sala,” Her friend told her, “I will happily provide a distraction to get away.”

Rosalea’s heart felt warmed. It had been a few decades since someone offered to jump between her and a guy.

“No, no. I’m afraid if I don’t talk to him now, the next thing I know rumors will say ‘Elf seen fleeing the night hand in hand with a human woman, two dozen men scorned.’ or something.” Rosalea sighed at the unfortunate reality of her humorous words. “You go on, if I don’t see you off in the morning, know I wish you luck and safety.”

After one last concerned glance, Lysette nodded and left.

Varric peered up at her in the dim night lighting curiously. “You know, Deadpan, there’s something different about you, but I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Rosalea rolled her eyes skyward. “I’m an oddball elf among humans, I thought you knew that already, Serrah Tethras.”

“No, I mean… is it your hair? Did you put makeup on? Normally I don’t think, all elves look alike, that’s just mean, but right now you kind of look like any other elf. If I didn’t recognize that hideous scarf I don’t think I’d’ve stopped you.”

Ah, yes. Her cloaking spell. Rosalea’s torso fluttered with silent laughter, and she deliberately shrugged. “If you think Dalish use cosmetics, you’re brain is addled, dwarf.”

“Hey! Daisy did.” Varric protested. “She’d paint her nails. Used to say, oh uh…. This is kind of awkward. Never mind, I’m not sure you want to hear this.”

“You can’t just say something like that and drop it, Serrah Tethras!” Rosalea protested with a quicksilver grin.

“Alright, I warned you. She’d say, ‘Oh, it’s just so hard to get blood from under my nails. If I paint them, you just don’t notice.’” Varric mimicked her voice as well as a flat, masculine dwarf could. Which is to say, not very well.

“Daisy’s a blood mage, I take it?” Rosalea said dryly. “You realize you could have just replaced blood with dirt, and it would have sailed right over a Templar’s head, right?”

“Well, that’s actually beside the point, Deadpan.” Varric huffed. “You were supposed to go, oh, Varric, that time of month is private! Not, jokes about blood magic are unfunny.”

“Serrah Tethras.” Rosalea’s voice belonged in a desert. “Jokes about blood magic are not funny.”

Varric stared up at her for a solid ten seconds, then laughed under his breath and shook his head. “You know, when you do that, I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

They had meandered away from the tavern and were stopped at a fire pit. Varric crouched down and rubbed his arms briskly for warmth. “Anyway, look, I was keeping an eye out for you for a reason.” The dwarf said with honesty coloring his voice. “After everything that went down, I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

“I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful.” Varric sneered just a little. “That can’t have been the kindest of transitions.”

“And here I thought dodging the hangman's noose was a great motivator.” The elf said sarcastically.

“The hangman? I can’t believe you survived Cassandra! You’re lucky you were out cold for most of her frothing rage.”

Rosalea stared at the flames for several moments, quiet. “I’m an elf, Varric.” She said, her voice a whisper in the quiet of the night.

Varric started at hearing his given name, but held in his exclamation at the look on her face.

“Behind every single great human movement in history, there have been elves beneath it. You dwarves run in your own circles, fuel yourselves. If a dwarf is in human history, it is because he set out to do so. If an elf is in human history, it is because there was no other choice.”

“Why don’t you run.” Varric suggested seriously. “If I were you, I’d be getting the hell out right now.”

Rosalea looked down at him with a small smile. “Unlike me, you’re free to go. Why are you staying?” She challenged.

Varric sighed gustily. “I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain.” He looked up at the scar in the sky. “I was almost one of them. I can’t walk away from that, from people hurting because of a giant hole in the sky.”

“And my reasons are much the same.” Rosalea concurred. “I might be being pushed into something I cannot control, yet. But so long as the direction it’s heading towards is doing good, will help people… how could I turn my back?”

Bar the fire, the night was filled with silence.

* * *

The following morning, Rosalea set out to gather people and supplies for her upcoming venture to the Hinterlands. The supplies was easy enough - the quartermaster, Threnn, was a practical sort of woman with years of service in Ferelden’s armies.

That she still praised Loghain Mac Tir… well, the man had sacrificed his life to save his country. Ferelden would never find out if repentance was a good look on the former Teryn.

People, on the other hand, well, that was easier said than done. Certainly it Cassandra already knew, and she’d told Varric last night.

But Rosalea had been avoiding Solas.

There had been a moment, a week ago, when Rosalea had been helping with funeral rites. The look upon Solas’ face had made her stomach turn sour. Her hands had faltered, and by the time she was done, Solas was gone.

Now Rosalea had to track him down, to hope he was even still in this fledgling Inquisition. He’d said he’d stay, yes, but… the realities of such measures were oftentimes difficult.

She found him seated upon a stone wall, staring up at the Breach. A book lay across his lap, and a stylograph in his ink splattered hand.

As she approached, Solas cast a glance, then looked back up.

“The Chosen of Andraste.” He greeted mildly. “A blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“I’m here to help, Serrah Solas.” Rosalea said quietly. “Nothing more, nothing less. Someone has to stop the Breach, and I can.”

“Spoken nobly indeed!” The elf praised her with a small smile.

There was an awkward silence.

“You think I’m mocking you.” Solas assessed quietly. “This age has made people cynical.”

“I didn’t say it to be noble.” Rosalea told him. “But you are right. It has been a long time since people had the leisure to just go out and be a hero. Too often, the causes that give birth to legends are heavy. Perhaps if the Inquisition finds me a shining steed to ride in on, I’ll change my mind.”

“A griffon perhaps?” Solas suggested with a small smile. “It is a pity they are extinct, now.”

“Yes,” Rosalea concurred with a sigh. “Those creatures did not deserve the end they were forced to. Griffons, Phoenixes… that the Dragons have survived as well as they have is a testament to their tenacity.”

Solas looked at her with surprise. “I have seen such myself.” He told her plainly, before shifting to look up at the sky with a deep breath filling his diaphragm. “I have journeyed deep into the fade / in ancient ruins and battlefields / to see the dreams of lost civilizations.”

Rosalea inhaled sharply. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash / to reenact the bloody past / in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.”

Solas closed his book with a snap, hopped off the partition nimbly, turning to face her with a sharp gaze. “Every great war has it’s heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

Deep within her, a piece she’d left unacknowledged for too long began crying. In joy, in sorrow, in the ineffable draw of allure, attraction. _Poetry._ Rosalea had a memory of looking at this man and thinking he was already made for it. For it to have actually come off his lips...

Really, there was only one response. “I floundered along as years gone / searching those familiar and far / while remains of my world crumbled around me.” The pupils of Solas’s eyes grew large, gazing at her in fascination.

“I’ve trekked over ever changing landscapes, / delved deep into memories of what was / searching the piece of myself long abandoned.” She said thickly. “I’ve only found the smallest trace / to remind me who we were before.”

“You’ve seen it as well.” Solas said in a hushed whisper. “Elvhenan.”

“I have.” Rosalea confirmed quietly.

“Another dreamer.” Solas closed his eyes with a small smile.

Unseen, Rosalea furrowed her brows. Was he being obtuse? Or fishing? But going over what Solas himself had implied - he spent his nights combing the fade, viewing shards of the forgotten past…

Solas was Elvhen. Rosalea could tell just by looking at him. He exuded his namesake as all Spirit-born did, maybe even born from pride during the height of their People.

But perhaps, it was possible he had been in _Uthenera_ for so long, dreaming was all he knew anymore.

To wake up to this, the struggles and war, the _Breach_...

Rosalea should have corrected him. She was _Elvhen_ , Spirit-born like himself. And unlike before, there was no Seeker watching Rosalea’s every word.

She should have.

But even now, there was the memory of leaning against a sturdy chest, a low voice rumbling in her ear as delicately tapered fingers pointed down at the People scurrying below their window, intent on their daily lives. _People,_ the man told her quietly, _are more than just faces. They each keep parts of themselves hidden._

Perhaps that man over there, watching the park, has a secret love of children, but his wife beside him is barren. They are both wounded, but not bitter, as their hands are tightly clasped together. Their love will persevere.

That young teenager in the corner, her face is happy is it not? Telling tall tales before a crowd, limbs flying energetically in emphasis. The crowd laughs, she bows her head with a bright grin and thanks. But it’s nothing personal. Not like the tiny child atop the play-tower, perhaps a daughter or sister, whose eyes keep straying to her too young caregiver. Don’t leave me!

People naturally form boundaries in order to keep secrets, some small, some large. Some you can learn by observation, others might take a little digging.

She had turned in his arms then, and asked with playful eyes and a pertinent smile, _What secrets do you hold, Sharth?_

Too many to tell. He’d said, then leaned down and brushed his nose against hers, whispered to her skin. _But you are my best kept._

The memory sent a fresh bolt of regret through her. It was a lesson early on, back when her world was new and bright and secrets weren’t something that could be terrible.

Being a Dreamer might be a front, as to anyone else being Elvhen was ridiculous. And dangerous. If Solas wished for Rosalea to view him in this manner, then she would let him.

Hopefully, in time, they could trust each other with the truth.

“What do you look for?” Rosalea asked curiously.

“Anything with a history.” Solas said firmly. “Any building ancient and crumpled will have a memory remaining. Any battlefield steeped with death will be reenacted by spirits pressing close.”

“You go so far.” She wondered at that. Here was a man who left no rock unturned, searched every detail until it was exhausted. How many lifetimes had he slept, to see the world in such a way? “I’ve never met anyone else who desired to do so. That’s extraordinary.”

“Thank you.” Solas said, as a smile teased at his lips. “I must say, it’s my passion. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

There was a subtle happiness around Solas as he spoke, but in truth, it highlighted the key difference between the two Elvhen. “And miss out on seeing the world with your own eyes?” Rosalea countered with a heavy heart. “To be able to look at the people around you, and cherish with them in the moment, instead of a memory?”

Solas’ expression closed off. “I-”

“No.” Rosalea hurried to interrupt him, gently placing her hand upon his arm. “I’m sorry.” She pleaded. “I shouldn’t have said that. After all, it’s just the flip side to the same coin. You love to view these cherished moments, keep them alive long after they are passed. I admire that, truly. And you are here, right now, making more.”

“...Yes.” Solas agreed quietly. He still looked a little discomfited, and Rosalea mourned the openness of before, as Solas wasn’t a demonstrative man to begin with. “I have decided to stay.”

Rosalea winced. “I’m sorry if I put that in doubt.”

“No.” Solas said firmly. “Merely that I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces. And unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me.” He shook her hand off his arm. “Cassandra has been accommodating. But you must understand my caution.”

“I do, Solas.” Rosalea said with a bitter smile. “Perhaps more than even you know. But you are here to help, Solas. And I won’t let them use that against you.”

“How would you stop them?” He challenged, drawing back.

“However I had to.” Rosalea declared resolutely, gazing up at him with a raptor’s piercing gaze. “These people have put me in a position of power, Solas, no matter how little it is or how long it lasts. Use it to defend one of The People? I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

His lips parted slightly, catching her attention again. _Poetry_ , she sighed. “Thank you.”

Hoping she didn’t have a dopey expression on her face, Rosalea cleared her throat and turned to business. “There’s a reason I tracked you down, Serrah Solas.”

“Oh?” Solas inquired with a dangerous lilt to his tone. “I had noticed the Chantry-folk were keeping you quite… busy.”

“Seeker Cassandra told me you theorize the mark needs more power behind it in order to close the Breach.” Rosalea turned her hand over to look at the eerie glow.

“That is correct.” The elf agreed. “I believe there was talk of utilizing the collected power of the mages upon the mark, or the templars upon the Breach itself.”

Rosalea cast him a glance. He hadn’t been there. So either his discussion with Cassandra was longer than the woman mentioned, or the man had ears in a sealed room.

“I’m still a little leery about the idea of involving templars in this. The Breach is very high up, can they truly suppress it that far? And what’s to say it won’t suppress the Mark?”

“All good questions.” Solas nodded. “In truth, ones I have thought of as well. But I am no Templar, and the Commander does seem certain of their powers.”

“But we already know the mages will work.” Rosalea asserted. “After all, you threaded your mana through it at the first rift. The mark must be designed to act as a focus of some sort already.”

“That is quite astute of you.” Solas praised. “Yes, I too believe that it will draw in the power, change it as necessary, and be able to close the Breach. First, however, we must acquire the mages, or this is all theoretical.”

“They’re not going to like that I’m not even considering the Templars, are they.” Rosalea stated knowingly. Of course they wouldn't, disregard the Chantry's holy soldiers out of hand? Madness.

“At its heart, this Inquisition is made up of Chantry forces.” He agreed. “They will be upset, and scramble to find another way to control the mages once they are in our ranks.”

“You’re right, this war is about mages being free from the Chantry. The rebel mages won’t just walk up to us with open arms. We need leverage.” Her mouth twisted, and Rosalea glanced aside to check for any listeners. “Sister Nightingale wants me to approach Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands, to form bonds within the Chantry and help gain power for this Inquisition.” Rosalea explained curtly.

“An action which, while understandable, will not help with the Mages.” Solas realized.

“Some of them will miss the Chantry. But not all of them.” Rosalea nodded. “It may end up being counterproductive. A hook with bait on it is only as useful as the breed of fish.”

“You mentioned leverage before speaking of Sister Nightingale.” The elf said thoughtfully. “What did you have in mind?”

“Serrah Tethras won’t let out the location of Hawke.” Rosalea lowered her voice. “And I don’t blame him. But we _do_ know three very important pieces of information. The rebel mages have taken refuge in Redcliffe. And the Hero of Ferelden, Arlene Amell, was a mage. Who happened to marry Teagan Guerrin, now Arl of Redcliffe.”

“She’s disappeared.” Solas frowned. “You cannot hope to find her in a timely manner.”

“Timely? No.” Rosalea agreed, and hushed her voice further to impart a secret. “But finding her is another manner. I know every soul who dares step inside Tallo’s Eye. As of last night, the caldera saw the Hero of Ferelden pass over its rim.”

Tallo’s Eye was far, far to the North. Past the Grey Warden Fortress of Weisshaupt. Past the Anderfel Capital of Hossberg.

Long ago, it had been the home of Fortitude, and Throne of a Spirit-King. No King in truth ruled over it now, but Rosalea was connected, even after so many centuries from her re-birth.

“If you know where she is… know the area that well, can you contact her?” Solas questioned intently. For all Solas despaired over the Grey Wardens, the presence of the Hero of Ferelden could help them seal the Breach quickly.

“I can only try. But she was Circle trained, so who knows how successful I will be. Their Harrowing leaves them wary to messages in the Fade.” Rosalea cautioned warily.

“Such an ally would be worth the risk.” Solas justified. “I will help, should you need it. We can journey tonight.”

“No.” Rosalea decided, gesturing at the Breach. “The Breach warps too many spirits. If any have the curiosity to view us, it could turn bad.”

“They’ve never dared spy on me.” Solas said with a furrowed brow. Rosalea wished she had his confidence, but knew better. Spirits always pressed, and had no compunctions about keeping secrets as people did.

“Regardless, in two days you, me, Serrah Tethras, and Seeker Cassandra are headed to the Hinterlands. That will be plenty of time to cross the Fade and find a single human.” Rosalea said wryly. Hopefully, they'd have an in to Redcliffe sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get out of Haven in this chapter. "I'll rush through this and get to the Hinterlands!" But I'm writing and it's like, character setup is important! Just because we've already played through this in the game doesn't mean you know the thoughts of the characters! So I wrote quite a bit of that, and didn't leave Haven.
> 
> I've been done up to Varric for the last three days. I just wasn't sure how to Solas. Then today, I caved and opened the game, found an old save file near enough. I swear to god it wrote itself, and not in the direction I intended at all. But it'll move the plot in an interesting direction, away from canon.
> 
> Also: I never before noticed that Solas has laugh lines on his eyes. My heart went doki-doki.
> 
> I myself don't profess to have a great love of poetry. Not William Pratt here. But I've always been decent at it, in the intuit way and the winning contests way. If anybody thinks it's terrible, tell me so I can at least try to match the wit of a character far, far older than I.
> 
> I've always felt gypped about some of the people in Haven. They're just two-liners who you can save or not save, but almost all of them are interesting. Lysette in particular I felt kin to, and so I've decided to develop her character. I hope I make her interesting for other people, as I have Plans for this girl.
> 
> The only Elvhen in this chapter is a standard response to _Andaran Atish'an_ , which is _Mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth._ It means Your grace warms my heart, and I figured it was the least dwelling like focus I could use. Plus, lets face it, Josie is full of grace.
> 
> This chapter is the first real hint I've given about the World State this fic is written under. Hawke might still shit daisies, I haven't pinned her down yet, but The Warden is definitely inspired. Please allow me to plug the following fics.
> 
> [With Noble Intent](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6705606/1/With-Noble-Intent) By Shakespira.
> 
> I went through a Phase. Many of us Dragon Age fans did. It was called _The Bannhammer_. Bann Teagan's kindness, and two lines of flirtation, got all of us hot under the collar. This here fic is made of 100% awesome. It's got humor. It's got humanity. It's got... well, you'll have to read it yourself.
> 
> The next one is called [Victory At Ostagar](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5825274/1/Victory-at-Ostagar) by Arsinoe de Blassenville. This fic Goes Places. You'll scratch your head. And kind of forget the details. Because it's just that chock full of Dragon Age-y goodness. At over 1m words long.
> 
> This is your **Solas Disclaimer™:** He's not going to just pick up on Rosalea being Elvhen. This is 100% Plot Device, and 100% Canon. I decided on this route partially for the _sheer comic relief_ and mostly because, according to **Cole** , "You're too bright. Like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes you more. But past it..."
> 
> Cole is a sweetheart who burns his eyes out. Solas is, at this point, dismissive of the average person of Thedas, and just thinks "Anything Unique can be chalked up to the Anchor."


	4. Begone! Demon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arlie Amell climbs a rock and is scarred for life.
> 
> Much flirting to be had.
> 
> Enter: The Hinterlands.

Sliding down agonizingly slowly to lean against the cliff face, Arlene “Arlie” Amell panted heavily and swiped at the sweat coating her face. It was futile, of course. Not in this Maker-forsaken death valley, with it’s oppressive heat capable of boiling blood.

Arlie raised her arm and gazed blearily at the underside near the elbow, then let out a curse. Another scrape, in another place she couldn’t reach. Long out of mana to spare to fix it.

She whistled low like a mourning dove. Sigmund came trotting up, panting heavily in the heat with an attentive gaze. “Need you to lick me clean, bucko.” Arlie told the mabari.

He was happy to slobber all over her.

Times like these, Arlie wished she’d had the foresight to take someone with her. The Fifth Blight might have been well over a decade gone, but the bonds she’d forged would have seen at least Zevran accompany her. Andraste’s tits, she’d take Anders. He was from the Anderfels, so he should be good at navigating this crappy country, right?

Arlie ignored the little voice that said Anders was as much an Ander as she was a Marcher. Kinloch Hold did it’s duty well in raising them, and both had been as Ferelden as they came when she recruited him at Vigil’s Keep.

Plus, well, Arlie was sure her husband would have had Words if she dared get in contact with her fellow mage. Blowing up a chantry and staging a rebellion tends to leave a negative impact when one’s husband is a devout Andrastian and all round good person.

The little voice scoffed. She and Teagan had been having Words since before the Kirkwall mess. Teagan became more like his brother with each passing day, and Arlie found that infuriating. Dragging Anders back into it would just be another excuse for a fight.

Mabari saliva was remarkably cool, Arlie reflected, pushing the great dog away with a laugh. Sigmund barked happily and spun around and around like he were still a spry pup.

Heaving herself up on her staff, Arlie sheltered her gaze from the sun to check her progress up the cliff. According to the notes she and Finn had combed through, this was considered a holy place to the people of Barindur. There was a massive throne atop the lonely crag, which Arlie just so happened to be trying to climb.

Arlie also happened to be directly in the heart of Barindur’s demise.

Finn had talked her ear off about what to expect out here with life cycles and poems and what seismic activity could do to long dormant volcanos. It had made her nervous, yes, but Arlie doubted that she of all people would set off the volcano, not if it hadn’t erupted in over a thousand years.

If that wasn’t how it worked, well, Arlie _didn’t want to hear it._

There were a number of things in her life that Arlie regretted. Listening to Jowan. Killing Loghain. Letting the Architect live. Depending on the day of the week, marrying Teagan. But times like this - she regretted not appreciating Morrigan.

Oh, what that woman could have taught her if Arlie hadn’t been clinging to the familiar teachings of the Circle!

Things like shapeshifting. So she wouldn’t have to be _climbing a cliff face with only a dog as a spotter!_

An hour later, sweating bullets and spewing vitriol, Arlie shakily heaved herself up to the plateau.

“Maker hear me sing.” Arlie muttered as she flopped onto her back and panted heavily, eyes closing.

“O’ Creator see me kneel:” Arlie ignored that she was splayed on her back like a bride on a wedding night. “For I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places where You have blessed.”

Her sweat damp lashes cast rainbows in the air as Arlie tried to open them. “Sing only in hope that this wild goose chase is _bloody damn well worth it!_ ”

“That’s not the Chant that I learned.” A voice piped up. “And I’m pretty sure the only birds in the Chant are the Old Gods, not the Old Goose.”

“Perhaps it is a new Dissonant Verse.” A second voice suggested mildly.

Arlie didn’t have the energy to jerk up like she wanted to. Instead, she flopped her hand vaguely in the direction of the voices with a two fingered salute.

“Tha’s nothing. I jus’ been inspired.” Arlie muttered. “I once met a Lay Sister in Denerim. She had some very fitting words, especially with you Spirits in front of me. Now go away, I’m not afraid of you. The Veal holds no uncertainty for me, for the Maker shall be my bacon and my shie-”

Rosalea choked and began her most ungraceful snorting laughter.

“Spirits don’t laugh like that.” Arlie said wonderingly, opening her eyes and squinting. “They don’t know how. And you’re more than just shiny blurs.”

“Could have sworn I fell asleep.” Arlie continued, pushing herself up to her elbows.

“Oh, you’re asleep.” Rosalea assured the wayward Hero. “Take a look around you.”

Arlie did, and felt a little sick at what the ever-changing landscape of the Fade told her.

In front of her were her two Not-Spirits, yes, but beyond them, history was flashing before Arlie’s eyes. Spirits, so many spirits, born one after another and cut from the same cloth. They had to be as stubborn as the mountain to steady the angry earth below.

A great bird, could this be a griffon? Something told her no. It was bigger than any avian Arlie had ever seen, perhaps half as big as a dragon-! It’s red plumage glittered in the sun with a golden sheen, a long, trailing crest atop its head fading from yellow-white to cool blue.

Then it was an elf, with strong features on russet skin and a scowl on his lips, facing a dark figure wielding a scythe. Magic sparked in the air, an oppressive sensation of _death_ as a great ritual circle lit up around them, then Arlie could see no more.

Years pass, sunrise to sunset. Spirits and elves and spirits and then, humans. Great works of magic, a place of ritual and ceremony.

Then suddenly around her, the lands shifted between prosperous greens with brilliant waters and skies, and angry lightning formed from a gigantic cloud of volcanic ash. There were bodies beside Arlie, only they were in fact far away, in the Capitol, crying-staring-clutching babe to chest, no time to run.

Searing heat washed over her body in a wave, she choked, _she-couldn’t-breathe_ she was being covered and crushed-and-burned-and-

Arlie screamed.

Solas took a single step forward, and all sensation reversed. The air was clean, the waters pure. All the spirits fled. Arlene could breathe again, and was chilled to the bone besides.

“You went too far.” Solas told Rosalea severely.

Rosalea was already apologetic. “I didn’t know she already had nightmares of Barindur.” She murmured softly, and kneeled before Arlie. “It was not my intent to frighten the life out of you, you have my word.”

Arlie’s green eyes cast wildly between the two ‘elves’ before her. “Who are you?” She choked out.

“It may be best if we reconvene at a later time.” Solas suggested. “Such a fright will not work in our favor, and she is hardly rational right now.”

“No.” Arlie said firmly, staggering to her knees, then feet. “I’m not sure I ever want to see your faces again, so I’d appreciate it if you can give your recruitment speech right now. Then I can act all tough and say, Begone! Demon! And get on with my search.”

Rosalea raised an eyebrow skeptically. “After you’ve already acknowledged you don’t think we’re spirits.” She said dryly.

“Well,” Arlie shrugged, “in my Harrowing I met a nice man named Mouse. He turned out to be a Pride demon.”

Rosalea had an awkward moment where she definitely did not look over at Solas. On his end, the silence wasn’t awkward at all, taking it as due course.

After a few seconds of silence, she sighed. “You know, Serrah Solas, I think you might be right. I kind of toppled the deck, didn’t I.”

“YES!” Arlie shouted out. “I will have nightmares of this for months! Terror and Despair will come after me with Vengeance!”

“We could stop now.” Solas frowned. “It’s not the most attractive of options, but Sister Nightingale’s plan could still succeed. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Rosalea furrowed her brows, looking torn.

“Wait.” Arlie decided to go on a limb and put them out of their misery. “You say you’re agents of Sister Nightingale?” She questioned. If anyone would find a way to send agents _through the Fade_ after her, it would be Leliana.

The elves exchanged glances.

Rosalea started speaking, “How much have you heard about the Conclave?”

Dark brows furrowed. “A Conclave?” Arlie murmured softly.

“Oh dear.” Rosalea murmured, catching Solas’ eye.

“Tallo’s eye is very far north.” Solas reminded her, then cleared his throat. “You must have left Ferelden quite some time ago, Arlessa Guerrin.”

Arlie’s lips twisted viciously. “Mages cannot hold titles.” She reminded them. “Let alone Grey Warden’s and their blasted neutrality.” Perhaps if Arlie had put Alistair on the Ferelden throne, things would be different. But she hadn’t, and was still, in a way, a second class citizen even as she was a wife to a noble.

“I see.” Solas frowned. “How would you like to be addressed?”

Arlie shrugged. “My name would be a start. But I still answer to Warden.”

“Arlene, then.” Solas said, not particularly holding her Order in esteem. “What have you heard of regarding the war between Mages and Templars?”

Mages and Templars? Arlie snorted. “A fair bit. We seceded from the Chantry, the Templars took it badly. Note the understatement here.” Arlie said blandly, then stretched out her voice. “Unndderrstaatemennt.”

Sometimes, it cheered Arlie to channel Alistair, just a bit.

Maker, did she miss that boy. You never know what you have ‘til they refuse to look in your general direction.

More seriously, Arlie elaborated. “I was researching at Kinloch Hold when Dairsmuid Circle got Annulled. From there, my lord husband sent me orders to get out of the tower, and stay away from the conflict.”

Kinloch Hold was already on dangerously thin ground in the eyes of the Chantry, having been granted impunity under the Ferelden Crown. What little Arlie had heard of the aftermath meant her husband’s order likely saved her life.

“That was almost a year ago.” Rosalea realized. “You heard nothing of Divine Justinia’s efforts?”

“Only rumors.” Arlie shrugged. Unfortunately, the rumors of Seekers hunting her had taken precedence.

“There was a Conclave.” Solas told the mage. “The Divine called forth the leaders of the rebellions to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Thousands travelled south to the Frostbacks, to hear word of the outcome.”

The Temple of Sacred Ashes… Arlie didn’t exactly have fond memories those hallowed halls. Crazed villagers, dragons, and stripping naked to walk through fire tended to put a damper on the wonder of Andraste’s final resting place.

“Someone capitalized on it.” Rosalea picked up the telling. “There was an explosion, with a magical backlash that tore open the Veil. We call it the Breach, a giant hole the size of mountains. In turn, it has created smaller tears in the Veil _everywhere_ and spirits are spitting out already corrupted to demons.”

Arlie frowned. “I think I would have noticed that.”

“You’re too far away to have felt the effects... yet.” Solas told the woman. “Over time, more and more rifts are going to appear as the lattice supporting the Veil crumples.”

Suddenly, they were elsewhere. Blackened, crumbled ruins. An odd green warp in the air - but it was a memory, as Arlie saw a figure raise their hand up, green thread connecting to it. After a fair bit of effort, it closed, sending a shockwave far, far upwards, to a giant, writhing hole in the sky. That, Arlie could feel was real.

“And what does Leliana want?” She questioned, tearing her eyes away from the Breach.

“After the explosion, the war between Mages and Templars restarted with a vengeance.” Rosalea informed her. “Yet so many mages and templars had come South for the Conclave… instead of scattered pockets, they’re all in one place. Ferelden has become a battlefield.”

Part of Arlie winced and mourned for her beloved Kingdom. The rest, however, was resolved. “Unfortunately, I can’t just run back to Ferelden to stop a war. I have my own path to follow right now, and I owe it to every Grey Warden dead, to every Warden I’ve recruited.”

“An Inquisition has been formed to handle the war.” Solas informed her. Arlie looked blank.

Rosalea explained the concept. “An independant, overriding military force, much like the Grey Wardens, only sanctioned by the Chantry instead.”

“So if you don’t need me, you two contacted me while I’m passed out… why?” The warden asked dryly.

“We _would_ like your presence in the Inquisition, but barring that, we need names.” Rosalea gesticulated a long list. “Code phrases, to give us entrance into Redcliffe. Perhaps a secret tunnel or two, if you’re willing.” Rosalea continued. “Because we need a great deal of power - magical power - in order to seal the Breach.”

“We need mages we can call on immediately, who can tip the blockade. Some rebel mages have currently taken refuge in Redcliffe, under the protection of the Ferelden Crown.”

Arlie’s eyes widened. Anora allowed that? More importantly, _Teagan_ had?

When had Arlie started underestimating the innate kindness of her husband, she wondered. Was it such a surprise that the man who wooed her still had a generous heart to help her people?

Arlie itched to go home, suddenly. She shook off the urge, and examined the elves before her. Assuming this wasn’t a trick - although the Breach above her head at least gave them some credence - she would have to leave the safety of her people in their hands.

“What are your names.” Arlie asked abruptly.

They looked taken aback. Clearly, in the drama and trauma of their introduction, they’d forgotten.

“My name is Solas.” Said the bald elf. Arlie looked him up and down, nodded, and took in the woman.

“Rosalea.” She said, giving a smile that showed off her canine. “Rosalea of Clan Lavellan.”

A Dalish with a Circle elf. That sounded like Leliana, all right. Utilizes every resource, that girl, even if most Dalish were wet blankets.

Arlie pulled back her shoulders. “I’m Warden-Commander Arlene Amell Guerrin. But you two can call me Arlie.”

“I can get you two entrance to Redcliff if you tell the guards this: ‘I have a package from Sigmund Jory for his Brother-in-Arms, Ser Perth.’ If you’re not greeted by Ser Perth on arrival, send a runner with a jar of Marmalade, but insist that the message is verbal and must be relayed in person.” Arlie paused to take a deep breath.

Rosalea felt her eyebrows climbing higher and higher. Hopefully, it was so ridiculous because it was true.

“After the marmalade, you should be shown to either Ser Perth or my husband. For either of them, greet them by saying ‘Woof.’” Arlie barked sarcastically. “And say ‘Mabari don’t talk.’ After that, you can explain the situation. Hopefully he’ll help, but at least it will merit you an introduction. You’ll have to handle negotiations yourself, but inquire after the following mages.”

Arlie rattled off a list, of all the ones who might remember her. From Petra, Wynne’s apprentice, to Cera, who worked for her in Vigil’s Keep. Connor, her nephew, Bethany, her cousin. Levyn, who she sincerely doubted would be Ferelden, let alone Redcliffe. Surana, whom Finn took as an apprentice after springing her from the Circle and practically adopting her with Ariane, and of course Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant himself, but he was probably living among the Dalish.

Then Arlie tacked on, “Oh. Right. If anyone is going to be leading the mages in Redcliffe, it’ll probably be Grand Enchanter Fiona. She doesn’t owe me anything, and make sure to tell her that, but also tell her that as a former Grey Warden, she should help stand against calamity. That I watched her son’s back, and he’ll be wanting to help the world too.”

Arlie had a long memory. Learning skills learned in the Tower aided her well over the years. That, and she had reason to remember them. “They’re my people. As a Ferelden, as a Mage. You are as well. I’ll do what I can, even knowing it’s not enough.” Arlie told them.

* * *

Solas stared at the place that the Warden disappeared from in contemplation. Truly, they had accomplished more than Solas thought they would, when the Dalish, Rosalea, came up with this half-cocked plan.

One could do quite a bit with names, consolidating their collective power onto yours. Adding the reach of the Hero of Ferelden was a massive boon.

His eyes drifted towards Rosalea.

She was odd indeed. When he had first seen the power of his foci had bonded to flesh, surely, he had thought, this mortal would not survive.

Yet, against all expectations, it almost appeared she was thriving, as though such a concentration of pure Elvhen magic boosting her. Solas was almost tempted to believe it to be _uplifting_ her, but that was hardly possible. It was the magic of ‘godhood’, no doubt, but not the magic that made gods.

Her ease and intuition with the mark had also surprised him. She was a mage - and a very well trained one at that. She felt the slightest bit of manipulation, traced it and reacted appropriately. Were the magic in the mark not Solas’ himself, she might even have been able to reject it when he threaded his mana through the mark.

Perhaps he should mention such to her as they tackled the next rifts… ensure the anchor was accommodating to the amount of foreign mana they planned on passing through the mark...

“Is something on my face?” Rosalea asked with a wry smile after he had not ceased his gaze for several minutes.

Solas blinked. “No. Although, you do look surprisingly different within the Fade.” He told her, just realizing the fact himself.

The difference was subtle, but there. Hair in a style much unlike the Dalish. Clothing soft instead of leathers. It was not the affects of a person who lived in riches, perhaps, but more a gravitation towards comfort.

...Actually, she _did_ have something on her face. But Solas was hardly going to bring it up.

It was most alarming, her _vallaslin_. Here in the Fade, it almost looked freshly made, and bleeding, as though whomever placed it had deliberately drawn the blood up in a pattern and let it pool, before slicing along with magically charged ink tipped needles.

Blood-writing indeed.

Solas hadn’t been aware _any_ of the Dalish practiced the true ritual. They usually only inked the skin, as the _durgenlen_ had done for eons themselves, and that ink practice resulted in fading as years went by.

When he had first seen her in the chantry dungeon, Solas had assumed her _vallaslin_ to be fresh. Perhaps she was new to being Dalish, as Rosalea wasn’t a fresh-faced youth, although she was still young-looking.

But then she had spoken Elvhen, which Solas now assumed she learned in the Fade, especially as there had been that offhand comment about being well educated…

He had fallen into contemplation again, it seemed.

Rosalea took pity on Solas and repeated herself without prompting. “I merely reflect the key elements that have made me who I am. I’ve never had a reason to try and alter how I appear in the Fade to match what I am in the waking world. I am me.”

“Wise words indeed.” Solas commented. He himself had taken care to be sure he embodied Solas, apostate elf, before setting out to find where Rosalea dreamed.

“If I may ask, how did you come to find this place?” Solas started, taking in the scenery around them and idly slipping into cadence. “I confess I too have witnessed the destruction of Barindur, now deep beneath the dead and barren wasteland. Ash from Tallo’s Eye sealed it tight. Darkness in a single moment, as every living being seared and smothered. Now they are statues cast from ash. Frozen faces a record of lost.”

The girl was staring at him again, eyes wide as they expressed wonder at his words. Solas half-expected her to reply in kind again, but this time she merely shook her head with a tremulous smile.

“I was born here.” She stated simply, looking away to gaze across the vast caldera. “My… brother raised me here until he died. After that, I travelled the world. But this was home, and for a place with such a concentration of magic such as this, it stays with you.”

“Your brother must have been quite the mage, to decide to live here of all places.” Solas decided.

Her lips twitched at him, finding something in his statement amusing. “He was.” Was all Rosalea said.

He would have pressed, but a sudden jolt of awareness flew through Solas. Before he could so much as blink, he was torn out of the Fade. Awake.

Yelling, the clang of armor. Reality pressing down upon him.

Templars.

Solas tripped as he hastened to get out of his tent. The dwarf was already out, having been on watch. Strange there was no alarm, they usually had better ni-

He swung his staff upwards, bracing horizontal to his head to catch the downwards swing of a sword. His muscles, still weakened, buckled slightly.

“HAAAAAHH!” Cassandra bellowed, clad in only a leather jerkin as she barreled shield first into his opponent just as blade tore shoulder.

Solas could feel a trickle from behind the veil, and tugged at it, twisting as much of the veil around him as he could while still weakened. It was enough, and he swiftly cast a barrier around the vulnerable Cassandra, and himself, followed by as many minor spells of affliction on all the enemies in the encampment.

Cassandra grunted a thanks, deflected an arrow on her shield. Tracing it to it’s source, Solas saw two archers on the high ground. Easily paralyzed once spotted, then taken out with a hail of arrows.

Across the guttered fire, Solas could see Rosalea nimbly dancing between three Templars. Their swords were narrowly missing each other more than the elf, and then, as she unknowingly maneuvered them just right, two took a bolt to the back of their knees. In quick succession, she rammed the blade of her halberd up their chins.

Then she turned, sharply jerking her halberd upwards in an arc, a wall of stone breaking from the earth right between the Templar’s knees and causing a high pitched yelp. Smiling grimly, Solas sent a charge of lightning, then surveyed the area as Cassandra finished them with a clash of steel.

“Clear, I believe.” Solas called out with a slow exhale.

“Shit I want a drink after that.” Varric muttered as he came out from his cover.

“We should break camp and leave immediately.” Cassandra said in response. Varric grumbled.

“Wounded first.” Rosalea snapped, marching over to Solas. He glanced down at his shoulder in surprise. “Sit.” She said, pushing down on his other shoulder, then straddling his thighs.

“Herald, that is hardly appro-” Cassandra started to protest, then stopped at the pale blue glow of healing magic.

Her magic felt stubborn, even when healing. It felt what should be, and even as it encouraged growth and mending, it was unyielding. This is how you should be, it said, and reflected that on flesh.

She frowned over the result, idly calling light to her hand to see better.

“It was shallow, but I don’t want you carrying your pack.” Rosalea informed him as she clambered off him. “We’ll split the contents among ourselves. If your shoulder feels well in the morning, that will be that. But I’m not healer, so expect it to be sore.”

Not by trade, perhaps, Solas reflected, but she was as well practiced at healing as any Elvhen surgeon.

What a waste of talent, for her to have been born in this era.

* * *

Dawn broke a little over an hour later. They were travelling south on the Imperial Highway along Lake Calenhad’s western shore.

The fighting, apparently, was nowhere near as bad here, despite the ambush in the night. As Rosalea gazed across the unending horizon of Lake Calenhad’s shores, she debated the likelihood of just taking ship to Redcliffe instead of chancing the mages.

The clang of Cassandra’s armor dissuaded her, at least for now. The Inquisition was currently marching to the Hinterlands to meet with Mother Giselle and help quell the mages. Perhaps afterwards, she and Solas could continue their own quest.

“So, Deadpan.” Varric called cheerfully. “Now that you’ve clambered all over Chuckles’ lap, what’s his number?”

Rosalea rolled her eyes. “I was hardly focusing on that at the time, Serrah Tethras.” She stated dryly.

“Oh come now! Everybody with a healthy libido thinks it!” Varric protested, then added. “Just think about it now, even if you didn’t think about it then.”

“Varric, must everything be a dirty joke to you?” Cassandra asked, exasperated.

“Hey, I’m dead serious! Chuckles seems like a good-looking elf to me, but what do I know, I’m a dwarf!” Varric grinned winningly.

Solas was conspicuously silent on the matter.

Rosalea contemplated a safe answer. Solas _was_ fairly fit, and held the stature of their people quite well. Plus, although Varric didn’t know it, there was his poet’s rhythm... Perhaps if she just numbered him, as Varric asked?

Rosalea shrugged. “Nine and a half.” She chose firmly.

Varric laughed uproariously. Cassandra sputtered. The tips of Solas’ ears went the slightest pink.

“Why not just a ten, Deadpan?” Varric asked, still laughing a little under his breath.

“Partially because he was injured, but mostly because he himself is disinterested.” Rosalea explained, thinking back to closed off eyes and body language.

“Hah!” Varric hollered. “Got a bit of an ego on you, Deadpan?”

She snorted. “Hardly. I just think that off limits is off limits.”

Cassandra sighed a little wistfully. “That is very practical of you, but will hardly lead to romance.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to be somebody who goes up to someone standing aloof, even if they’re the most handsome of men in the room, look into their eyes and chant ‘You will like me. You will like me.’”

“Sounds like the start of a story to me.” Varric admitted. “It’s being bold! Notice me, you cry, and prove yourself to them until they do.”

Rosalea shook her head. “It’s disrespectful at best.”

Varric turned his gaze to Solas. “What about you, Chuckles? Are you just going to stand there and be silent, while a well put-together woman like Rosie here thinks you find her unattractive?” He challenged, a mock-protective glare coming to his face.

Solas sighed inaudibly.

“I agree with Varric, Solas.” Cassandra piped up. “Perhaps she is not as… small as most elves I have seen, but that hardly means you should find her ugly. She is toned, and takes care of herself very well. Why, her eyes are luminous!”

‘I’m an elf.’ Rosalea wanted to say to such a ridiculous statement about her eyes, but Varric spoke up first.

“Seeker, I had no idea!” Varric cried out with a lewd grin.

Cassandra glared at him. “There is no reason why I should not admit to Rosalie’s beauty. I may not be _romantically inclined_ towards women, but I have working eyes.” She huffed.

Rosalea’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Look, I appreciate both of your fervor in coming to my defense, but it’s hardly necessary.”

“No, it _is_ necessary!” Cassandra cried out indignantly.

“Cassandra’s right, Deadpan.” Varric agreed, “I’d even be willing to put that in writing, and that’s saying something. So, Solas, it’s your turn.”

He was silent for several moments.

“Certainly I will agree that Rosalea has many attributes that could be pleasing.” Solas said after the pause. “In particular, the grace with which you move shows an admirable amount of control over yourself and your surroundings. Your indomitable focus is quite the side benefit.”

Rosalea felt her eyebrow climb higher and higher with each word, but fought to keep her face steady. How very Elvhen of him. It seemed she had been wrong about him after all.

Cassandra stared at Solas accusingly. “That is not right! You are supposed to pair such compliments with what it is that is pleasing. The way her hair falls around her as she twirls gracefully. That is what I would have said!”

Varric, on the other hand, was staring hard at Solas. Control. Indomitable. “I didn’t mean for you to air your kinks out, you know that right?”

Clearly, there was no way to win, even when the compliments were, while genuine, forced out of him.

Rosalea tried to settle the matter, turning to wave her hands in front of the duo. “He thinks I’m graceful. I can live with that, it has that Orlesian ‘ _je ne sais quoi_ ’”

Solas caught her elbow then, shook his head and caught her eyes deliberately. “No, I do not ‘think,’ there is no debate to be had: I am declaring it.”

His eyes spoke volumes that their companions could not read. Determination and truth, the slightest base acknowledgment. Varric was not far off in his assumption, but he also was not Elvhen.

Rosalea lost the battle with her composure. She was not the type to flush in the face, no. Her cheeks drained of blood, but her chest was warm and her head started to spin with a rush.

Neither lock nor buckle your knees, she reminded herself viciously. Plant your stance, take a deep breath, _and do not swoon._

Luckily for her, Varric saved her from having to reply, jabbering something or other up at Solas’ face. Rosalea couldn’t tell past the rush in her ears what it was, however grateful she was for the diversion.

Then Solas, who had been distracted, glanced over at her. Concern filled his face, and his grip on her elbow tightened surreptitiously. Rosalea shook her head with a slight smile, and stepped away to show she was still sturdy.

Solas’ lips twitched the slightest bit, the laugh lines at his eyes highlighted. Rosalea filed that face under ‘bit of a bastard.’

Sound came back in fragments. Body language told more, clearly Cassandra, closet romantic, had schooled herself back into practicality. They should keep moving.

They resumed march.

After several minutes of walking, sly grey eyes turned to her. Solas kept his voice low, and breathed in her ear with the slightest suggestive lilt: “Perhaps not so indomitable after all.”

Breath and feet faltering, Rosalea squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Then, once again out of words, she reared back and gave Solas a solid punch on the arm before stomping up to Cassandra’s side indignantly.

His low chuckles filled the air, but she couldn’t hear it.

* * *

The red earth that this region was named after was soon a stark difference in appearance to the white stone in the highway.

For reasons probably directly involved with the war, the Imperial Highway went into disrepair the closer and closer they got to Redcliffe.

As they closed in on the river, a flag in the trees hailed them down. Gripping her halberd, Rosalea followed Cassandra off the footpath north into a dense cluster of trees.

A dwarf wearing Inquisition insignia greeted them. “Seeker, Herald. I’m glad you all could make it so promptly, and that I caught you when I did.”

She tugged her heavy leather gloves off with a yank, then held out her hand. “Scout Harding, at your service.”

Varric grinned in delight. “Hey, have you ever been in Hightown?”

Rosalea snorted in amusement as she replied, “No, I can’t say I have. Why?”

“Because you’d be Harding in Hi- you know what. Forget it.” Varric grumbled, realizing his joke was flat without a yes.

Cassandra was busy being vocal in her disgust, so Rosalea waved Harding on. “Continue your report if you will, Scout Harding.”

“O...kay.” She said slowly. “Right. If you’d kept on another couple hundred meters, you’d have walked right into an ambush. The Templars are perched just on the other side of the river, and the bridge is down, so you’d be waterlogged on top of that.”

“That is quite unfortunate.” Cassandra said, glaring in the distance. “What are they thinking?”

The scout shrugged. “It’s war. They’re extremists. They just don’t care.” Harding pulled out her map. “I’ve marked out some alternate routes, but both are a bit out of the way. But if you go this way,” Here, Harding traced her finger north, then across to the east. “You can stop here,” She backtracked to the turning point. “And requisition some horses. Dennet’s not been shy about telling us off for asking, with only our word about what we’re doing, but I imagine if _you_ talk to him, Herald, he’ll agree to help.”

Rosalea nodded thoughtfully. “Horses would shave time. But it looks like it will put us north of the crossroads in question.”

“It will.” Harding agreed. “But, I have orders from Commander Cullen regarding horses anyway. And you’ll be quicker on mounts.”

“And these Templars, they can’t be reasoned with?” Cassandra asked skeptically. “Surely, they can be reasoned with and we’ll be on our way.”

“That’s their main encampment, so you’ll probably end up having to do something with them anyway, but… them let you through to quell the fighting on the King’s Road? You’ll be fighting for hours.” Harding cautioned.

“Right. We’ll get horses.” Rosalea decided. “Now what are these marks here?” She pointed out little stars.

“Rifts, my lady Herald. One of our scouts, Lysette, said you might appreciate knowing where they are ahead of time.” Harding told her, pointing out various positions. “We haven’t done any in depth investigations, so they’re roughly from a distance, but should be accurate enough.”

One of them was directly on the farm, Rosalea realized. Closing it should be proof enough for the horsemaster that they were legitimate. “Alright, Scout Harding, we’ll head that way. Are there any missives we need? And can I get a copy of this map?”

“Take this one, we have more back at camp. We’re camped here right now by the way, on a high perch where we can keep an eye on the fighting.” Harding pointed it out. “And you might want to take the orders from Cullen, I think he wrote some hard numbers down…”

There was something to be said about Ferelden’s, Rosalea reflected, as a great number of people would see a tear to the fade on their farm and flee from the demons. But no, not Ferelden’s. They toughed it out, kept their distance and ignored the demons.

For the most part, Rosalea thought wryly as she surveyed the damage on the farms, it worked. For half of it anyway. She amended. Perhaps the Horsemaster Dennet, or his wife, had invested in wards once upon a time…

They must have made a spectacle, marching head on towards the rift. A farmhand shaded his vision to watch as they passed with an inscrutable look upon his face.

The veil fluxed as they approached, like reacting to like. Rosalea shook her hand a little bit, then focused as demons pressed against the rift, warping as they stepped through.

Mere wraiths phased through, and a terror demon, it’s beady eyes locking on Rosalea like a hound.

She shot a stone fist towards it, striking it down to the ground. Moments later, it collapsed into a wave of ether after a wave of arrows. Rosalea shot for the remaining wraith, slicing through the sad being with a firm slice of her halberd.

“More incoming!” She called out as demons pressed and pushed against the veil, green light stretching outwards. They emerged with a flap of wings.

More terror demons. Why did it always have to be terror demons.

All too soon, Rosalea was lifting her hand, threading her mana and tethering to the rift, then yanking it closed.

Footsteps approached, a lined face eyeing her under a wide brimmed hat.

“So you must be with this Inquisition.” She harrumphed. “Well, fair’s fair, come up to the main house and you can talk terms with my husband. But I warn you, if you’re looking for more, we’ll put you to work for them.” That said, the woman walked away.

The man himself, at first, spoke only to Cassandra. Rosalea rolled her eyes and thrust the letter forth in her glowing hand. His bushy eyebrows rose. “You’re the one who seals them? An elf?” He backtracked slightly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being an elf. And you’re one of those wandering ones, right? I’d give my right arm to ride a halla. Just surprised me is all.”

Dennet broke the seal and perused the letter carefully. “That’s quite a bit for a foundling organization, and I’ve got worries here on the farmstead. Tell you what.” He glanced up, making sure to speak directly at the ‘Herald.’” “You go on and take horses for your party. You already dealt with the hole that was bothering us, so that’ll work out nicely. But for this,” Dennet waved the letter, “my wife’s got a list of things. Get that solved, and we’ll talk.”

“At least we’ve got horses.” Became the mantra as his wife gave them a laundry list of things to do.

Seanna, Dennet’s daughter, was a little more cheerful. “We probably would have lost these horses to those demons anyway if you hadn’t come along.”

Varric was looking up at the big brown beast with a wary expression. “Hey, you can feel free to laugh, dwarf here, but you guys got any ponies instead?” A pony was, indeed, brought out for him. Varric still didn’t look pleased, but mounted anyway after some fumbling. “A dwarf on a horse.” He was heard muttering.

“ _Savhalla._ Rosalea greeted the mare she’d brought out for her quietly. She was no Dhearas, that was sure, but she was a healthy, steady horse that was apparently combat trained - “To an extent, of course. Archery only. But she seems to have adapted to the spells the demons shoot off! They don’t scare her none!”

Solas was paired with a dappled gold gelding, that seemed content to do as it was told but wasn’t particularly impressive. “Good lineage, just broke hard.” Seanna said cheerfully. Solas looked outright pained at the wording.

Cassandra, of course, was given a monster of a horse. “Still a stallion, make sure he doesn’t bother the Herald’s horse, you hear? But he’s got charging down pat, will be great at breaking crowds.”

“You sure I can’t tempt you to a race?” Seanna asked hopefully. “Now that the demons are gone, I want these horses exercised nice, and a good run through the circuit would do it nicely.”

Rosalea shook her head. “Maybe later, when we’re done with our errands.” She said, a bit of an empty promise. Rosalea may love Dhearas dearly, but she was never a fan of mindlessly riding for fun.

“Alright then!” Seanna called, leading them through the gates.

Then they were off.

“We should raise a banner here.” Rosalea called out, pointing at an area just off the floodplain. “Have some scouts make camp and help dissuade further incursions until those watchtowers can be built.”

It was a sound enough plan, so they did so quickly. Between that and the one they had left back on the farm itself, declaring it under protection, hopefully things at the farm would stay stable until they could come through again.

All too soon, they came across a great rift, the one that Elayne had mentioned by the river. Just their luck, it blocked their path through, and was high above their heads, even with the top of the falls. “A lot of death must have been on these falls.” Rosalea murmured, eyeing the waterfall and testing the veil with her mana.

Meltwater path, Rosalea deduced, although luckily not too heavy of it. Water from the mountains, rushing to fill Lake Calenhad. She caught Solas’s eye, and jerked her chin downstream.

A plan was coming together in her head of how to get into Redcliffe. Certainly, after they dealt with the Crossroads, they could try the gate, but barring that, this would be their way to the lake.

Demons finally noticed them from beyond the veil, then. Despair burst into their bath, screaming a great death-cry. Terror’s spewed forth.

“Void!” Rosalea spat. This was _hardly_ the child's play the demons at the farm had been. No, these demons had witnessed many deaths of suicide and murder on these falls, and all too easily fed on those sins.

Rosalea _was not_ risking these horses. She jumped off and smacked the horse’s rear, causing it to bolt downstream. Solas did the same, while Varric backed his pony up the bank, trying to gain a high ground from there.

Cassandra’s great beast charged through the demons, her sword flashing with deadly precision. At the other end of the river, she turned it in a wide circle before repeating the rush.

Solas’ lips were moving inaudibly, and with a **crack** the river froze under the Terror demons feet, trapping it to the ground.

Rosalea focused on Despair. It cried out and pulled strength from Solas’ ice, so she cut it off with a great crack of earth. It became a game of chase she was disinclined to play as it escaped to the cliff face.

Dropping her halberd into two hands, Rosalea took a great stomp forward with her arms out rigidly, then wrenched backwards. The cliff came alive and entombed Despair.

“HERALD!” Varric shouted a warning cry out, and Rosalea jerked around - then she plunged to the ground as Terror erupted under her feet. It leaned over her and screamed in her face, it’s ugly black beak open wide to take a chomp out of her flesh.

A barrage of ice rammed into it, forcing it back, followed by a powerful shot to the head. Rosalea scrambled backwards on her elbows, reaching for her halberd.

Grasping it, she inhaled deep, and let out a lungfull of fire from her breath. Her lips scorched, her face warmed, and the demon dissipated.

A hand appeared, long fingered and strong. She looked up at Solas’ face and smacked her hand upwards to grab it.

“There will be more coming through soon.” He warned her, keeping a steady grip as she clambered up.

Rosalea grimaced. “I don’t think we’re best prepared for it.”

“We’ll find out. Let us lay some traps down.” Solas suggested, and releasing her, tipped his staff into the ground. The runes for an ice mine bloomed under their feet.

“Are you alright, Rosalie?” Cassandra asked from atop her steed, dancing the beast around the mines.

Nodding at the woman in reassurance with a grimace at the name, Rosalea staggered a bit away to lay down some traps as well, of paralysis and fire.

All too soon, her mark sparked in warning. “More coming through!” She shouted out, and readied a wall of stone in front of her for cover.

More of its ilk came through, shrieking upon their touch with reality. Inhaling deep, Rosalea focused once more on the cluster of Despair, calling forth a raging fire beneath their feet. Molten fire spewed forth, clinging to the icy-demon’s tattered form and drawing forth a cry as it ate through spirit-form. One spun slowly in a circle, trying to shake off the debris, then sped off.

Cassandra pursued it with a cry, the stallion knocking against it as she plunged her sword deep in it’s chest. It sputtered and shrieked again and flew away.

The other, more encumbered by the molten earth, Rosalea sent a fist out towards. It flew through the air and landed on a paralysis rune. Seconds later, a hail of arrows flew down from above, killing it.

Solas was facing off two Terror demons expertly. Forceful blasts of ice escaped him, continually knocking them down. Then he let out a cone of cold flurries, slowing them down and freezing their forms. One spun, and utilized its spindly tail to knock him back. He retaliated by calling down a bolt from the heavens, disintegrating both of them where they were.

Only a single Despair remained, and it spoke in ghastly whispers.

_You are alone. How will you live on without them by your side. They have made you into something that you are not, cry-for-what-once-was-_

Cassandra’s horse trampled it to death. _It_ did not care for whatever words it had to say.

Cassandra awkwardly patted its neck as Rosalea sealed the rift. “You are a fine steed. I wonder if Master Dennet will mind if I rename you. I wish to call you Stomper, after those mighty hooves you have.”

The stallion snorted his agreement, and stamped said hooves.

“Good. It is decided.” Cassandra said, pleased.

Varric came up, looking comical as he the reins of the other two horses were looped on the horn of his saddle and sandwiched him and the pony in.

“You all right there, Deadpan?” He called out, “Saw you were down for a minute there.”

Rosalea waved him off as she retrieved her horse. “I’ve had worse than being flat on my back and spewing flames.”

He peered at her uncertainly. “Still. Your face is kind of… red.” He said, an understatement if there ever was one.

The skin was shy of peeling, and minor blisters had formed along her lips from her breath of flame. Rosalea touched it gingerly, but didn’t press it. “I guess I can take a moment and slather it with elfroot, but we do have to keep moving.”

“Allow me.” Solas said, a jar of paste already in his hands. He dabbed at her face gently, smoothing the paste out with a ghost-like touch. Solas saved her lips for last, and whispered a healing spell as he did so.

He was inscrutable as he pulled away, only crouching to repack the ointment in his pack. Rosalea thanked him quietly, and turned to mount. Then they were off again, well aware of the time crunch to get to the Mother Giselle in time.

It was close.

The sun was just past set as they road at a hard pace down the King’s Road. To Cassandra’s chagrin, they flew right past the bulk of the fighting.

“We’re needed at the crossroads!” Rosalea called to the wind. “If they’re still fighting when we break it up where the refugees are, we’ll deal with it then!”

Even then, they had to evade arrows from the Templars, and spells from the Mages. That none of the horses spooked was a credit to Dennet’s herd.

When they got to the crossroads itself, Rosalea’s words proved correct. They were just in time to charge in front of an oncoming group of mages, cutting off their path viciously. Solas called a wall of ice up, stopping them from going further, before galloping further down the road to meet more soldiers.

Rosalea flourished her halberd threateningly, and sliced off the arm of the first one to try and cast a spell at her. The night continued on that note bleakly.

Satina was waxing poetic in the sky by the time idiots stopped reinforcing the chaos, with it’s twin barely a crescent on the horizon, by the time reinforcements stopped pushing through.

Rosalea and Varric were back to back by that point, each handling long distance enemies from two entrances. When it was over, she slumped down to lean against him fully.

“Deadpan, you’re not exactly a feather.” Varric grumbled, but didn’t shove her off. It was that blasted height weight anyway.

Rosalea flopped her hand midair to show how much she cared, and tilted her head backwards until it rested atop Varric’s head.

“You two look quite cozy.” Cassandra said as she limped up to them. “I… shall join you. I have never spent so much time in the saddle in my life.”

Probably a lie. Cassandra was a Pentaghast, so they probably threw her on a horse for hours a day. But riding hard, charging? Rosalea bought that. The woman came down hard, legs bent and splayed as she leaned back into them.

Rising from where he was tending an injured man, Solas leaned against his staff and watched the three lean against each other with hooded eyes.

Varric waved him over. “C’mon Chuckles, it’s a well deserved rest. You should sit down before you fall down too.”

Solas shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I will refrain. There are still injured among the people here.”

Rosalea peeked an eye open and glowered at him. “Solas.” She grumbled. “Lean against me and Varric and help us keep up Cassandra. One hour.”

He paused, then acquiesced. “ _Ma nuvenin._ ”

They dozed like that.

* * *

**\-- A Spirit’s Tale: III --**

* * *

Minor tremors shook Kal-Sharok.

Sharth strode forward with a contingent of soldiers. He met the oncoming dwarf with a firm nod. “What seems to be the problem?” He questioned, raising his fist to halt those behind him.

“Walk with me.” The dwarf said, and started heading to the Shaperate.

Sharth left the soldiers outside, and peered around curiously. Fortitude stepped out of him without a sound. “Where are we, Sharth?” It asked.

“The Great Underground Capitol of the North, Kal-Sharok.” Sharth replied quietly, gesturing to the dwarves. “They are people of the Stone. Be wary, for they are not connected to your kind.”

Fortitude nodded, and disappeared into the shelves as a group of dwarves approached with a clamor.

“Captain Sharth, correct?” The Shaper asked needlessly. Sharth nodded his affirmation. "Good. We have called for the Elvhen because there has been a great disturbance on the surface to the north of here.” The Shaper explained. 

Sharth kept his face flat. “Where to the north?”

A glowing map appeared on the wall. It displayed underground distance, but Sharth translated the leagues displayed easily. It was as he assumed.

Fortitude appeared before the map. “That is the home of the Phoenix-king!” It exclaimed, delighted.

There was a clamor around them. “You have brought a Spirit within our halls!” The Shaper was outraged.

Thinking quickly, Sharth tipped a bit of honesty into his voice. “This Spirit is from those lands. When I heard of a disturbance in Kal-Sharok, I decided to bring it here.”

The Shaper peered up at the Spirit with lyrium-blue eyes, then gazed at Sharth. “Very well. Tell me everything you know.”

There was no way that Sharth would tell them everything, of cou-

Then Fortitude spoke up. “Lingrearaj is dead. There is no longer a Spirit-King to keep the Caldera calm.”

Sharth closed his eyes and counted in his head. Did this Spirit have no concept of the word _secret_?

The Shaperate erupted into whispers.

* * *

There was a whisper of robes, and then a voice addressed them in the night.

“Greetings, Herald of Andraste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun with this chapter. Bit of a back and forth pov, I had fun with it. I hope you guys thought it went well.
> 
> Hope you like that glimpse of Arlie Amell, this won’t be the last you see of her. The trite title in my head for her is “Time brings all to their knees.” and she’s aware of it. The little voice in Arlie’s head: spirit of a healer, or demon of a blood mage. **Gimme your thoughts.**
> 
> Also: I’m aware I’ve previously stated that she ‘retired and got married’ but anyone who has played DA:O knows that you’re a Warden for life, no matter what.
> 
> Witty in response? Flirt back? Nah! I first found Solas’s charm both utterly surprising and completely overwhelming, so I tried to capture that…. I just hope she didn’t come off as a wallflower or something when faced with a guy. I wanted to show how the surprise factor worked - she genuinely did not expect that, or for it to be an honest answer.
> 
> And Yes: **I am looking at you FFVIII.** I enjoy Squall. I do believe Rinoa grows up from that pushy scene in the ball. But I still have a problem with it.
> 
> Enter my frustration at meeting Scout Harding *in the middle of nowhere.* Is it conveniently near Giselle? Yes. But you have to do a gigantic circuit through the Hinterlands after that. They _should_ have entered at the entrance near Dennet’s Farm. But I guess that would give you your mount with too little work? Bah.
> 
> Plus, listen to me grumble at length about the Hinterlands *not* having the Imperial Highway near Redcliffe. Like, uh. What. And the fact that you’re not *really in the Hinterlands*! You’re in the lands surrounding Redcliffe. The Hinterlands is huge, and much much more east. Maybe this is the *edge* of the Hinterlands. But hell, line up Redcliffe on the map and they could take a trip to Honnleath, the way it’s plotted out.
> 
> Is the fighting boring? I’m kind of debating if I should skip some, only do hard fights, just vaguely mention it… I’m honestly not sure. DAI has soooo many different fights. How many times can I describe everyone's moves? And I think I’m doing a bad job describing the actual emotional highs and lows of battle, too. Please tell me what you think.
> 
> **Please leave a contribution in the little box.**


	5. Lyrium Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Rosalea continue to explore the Fade around Redcliffe.  
> Cassandra takes the initiative to deal with some Hinterland mess herself, dragging Varric along with her.
> 
> **And**  
>  Sharth has some minor communication problems with Fortitude. Again. He thinks he got through the time?  
> And the Dwarves of Kal-Sharok are Not Happy.

“ _Greetings, Herald of Andraste._ ” A low, pleasant Orlesian voice called out to them.

The figure before them was shrouded outline of Chantry robes in the dark. “You all have done much for these people this night.”

Cassandra glared upwards like she was contemplating bodily harm, then her expression smoothed. “Your Revenance.” She greeted as she hauled herself up, causing Varric in particular to grumble.

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast, and this is Rosalie de la Vallée.” Cassandra introduced, urging Rosalea to her feet with a quick tug. 

“Rosalea, Seeker. Not Rosalie.” Rosalea glared at the Seeker briefly, but at Cassandra’s bewildered expression focused instead on the Chantry Mother before them. “Mother Giselle, I take it?” Rosalea inquired politely.

“Yes. I have heard of your efforts, and wish to speak with you and help further your cause.” Mother Giselle said in a kindly voice. “But we shall speak of this later. For now, if you would follow me, I shall lead you to a place where you may rest.”

She led them away from the road and up to a sheltered area where a number of cot and pads had been set out. Rosalea sat heavily on the thin pad, and yawned as she tugged at the metal braces.

At the far end lay the wounded, being tended to by too few people. Solas drifted over that way, but Giselle caught his elbow. “I appreciate your willingness to help, but they are all stable for now. Please, get some rest.”

* * *

Rosalea was in the Fade.

This was one of the more pleasant journeys into the land of dreams since the Breach. The lull of battle this evening was reflected in the Fade, a bubble of peace that showed how this part of the Hinterlands usually was.

Redcliffe was a prosperous region, full of trade, the crossroads themselves bearing wagons from Denerim, South Reach, Orzammar. The long line of carts, although perhaps exaggerated in the fade, went all the way to the gates of Redcliffe. Rosalea followed them to the seat of the Arl and was duly impressed.

Rosalea had heard hearsay that in the aftermath of the Blight, with Denerim decimated and Highever ruined, then Amaranthine, that Redcliffe became prosperous under it’s new Arl. That it was a home to the Hero of Ferelden also drew people in far and wide.

It was something of a wonder to see it for herself, filled to the brim with people and markets and glimpses of festivals, although Rosalea doubted it was still the case now. Not with the war.

Redcliffe was a fount of history and life, glorified in Spirits recall. Mages flocking to Redcliffe’s gates, staves in hand as they sought shelter. With regard for the Warden, the Arl acquiesced. Ferelden paid its debts that day, giving refuge for aid in the Blight.

Then.

A vision of townsfolk _burning,_ determined to protect their home from hordes of undead invaders until death. A Spirit of Valor displays the false-skin of Arlie Amelle, raising a staff like a sword high in the air, summoning forth Spirits of Hope to break through the villagers Despair.

A hand touched her shoulder then.

Rosalea’s hand clamped on it, pressing just so and twisting - but this was the Fade, it did not have the effect it would have had on Flesh. Solas let out a breath of laugh, nod budging from where he stood behind her.

She took a step away. “Serrah Solas.”

“It was not my intent to startle you.” Solas spoke with a tiny twitch of his lips. “ _Ir abelas._ ”

“ _G’ton._ ” Rosalea waved it off.

Solas looked around the dream he found himself in, curious. “Are you planning our trek, or here for enjoyment?”

“Mostly the latter.” Rosalea admitted. “The Spirits might reflect a person or two, and a major road, but I doubt it would be an accurate current representation.”

His eyes smiled in pleasure. “Indeed. May I view?”

At her nod, Solas exerted his will against the vision, a strong, assertive _push_ of magic and spirit that caused all the Spirits in the play before them to ripple, then resume once again from the start.

Rosalea stared at his face, enraptured and the slightest bit alarmed at the power Solas so casually wielded. Granted, she had never met someone who had spent their millennia in the Waking Dream, so for all she knew, this could be normal for an Elvhen of his age and ability.

His grey eyes slid over to her, and he raised an eyebrow in question. Sound paused, and Solas asked. “Is something the matter?”

Rosalea looked away. “Your ease is astounding. What I can do pales in comparison to that. I saw it before, too. You just _change_ the Fade.”

Solas smiled just a little. “Thank you. I have had quite a bit of practice at it. At this point, directing the Fade is like stretching a muscle.”

The muscles of a dragon, Rosalea thought in amusement.

The scene resumed. It cycled through the crisis, the arrival of the Hero of Ferelden, the battle in the night. Then they were swept to the Windmill. “Hm.” Solas vocalized thoughtfully, and the scene restarted.

Rosalea hadn’t gotten this far in the Retelling, and looked to see what had his attention.

A Spirit of Duty stood near a changing Spirit of Valor that portrayed The Warden and Alistair both. Vanity called upon Duty, to promise to assist her son. Teagan swept up The Warden’s hands, gifting her a secret path and ring.

The Wardens crept under the mill, a hidden way into the castle. A man confessed a ploy to poison the Arl. Onwards the went into the keep, coming upon where Duty stood, ensorcelled by the source of their undead foes. A battle was had between friends, and a mother cried out for mercy.

Desire laughed, then cowered and ran. A great undertaking was tasked, to cleanse the boy of the demon within him. A plan hatched to use magic unknown. The boy was bound, a rite performed, The Warden facing Desire for the boy. The Warden triumphed and brought peace. Duty bade Valor, _Stay by my side._

Solas snorted in amusement. Rosalea looked over at him curiously. He motioned to Duty. “That right there is embellishment for sure.” He said dryly.

“What, you don’t think that after a great battle for his nephew’s life, the Arl made romantic overtures to Arlie?” Rosalea concluded in amusement.

“Look closely.” Solas murmured, and with a gesture the Spirits began reenacting again. “There.” He said, pointing out the figures in the ritual itself.

Rosalea’s eyebrows flew up. “Is that blood magic?” She asked incredulously.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. They could have had outside assistance,” Solas allowed, and walked up to a host of minor Spirits portraying a crowd of figures, their features indecipherable. “The beauty and frustration of attempting to force the truth from the Fade.”

“All are true.” Rosalea murmured, well aware of that lesson.

Her eyes stayed on the figures that might be performing blood magic to save the boy. “Is it murder, or justified? Can willing sacrifice erase stains? This “Greater Good” both took and saved a life.”

Solas hummed thoughtfully in his throat. “Doubtlessly this is sacrifice.” He agreed, then challenged her with rapid repartee “Who are we to question the lost? Selfishly spit upon a cause held most dear?”

“Being left behind has it’s own scars.” Rosalea rejoined quietly.

Solas turned to face her, sensing they were no longer speaking hypothetically about the boy. “Wear scars with _pride_. With remembrance instead.”

Rosalea looked at Solas penetratingly for several moments. “Does that work for you?”

Solas gave a languid roll of his shoulders that didn’t deserve to be called a shrug. “When I tell myself it does.”

There might have been more to The Warden’s story in Redcliffe, but Rosalea decided she’d seen enough.

She woke up.

* * *

Rosalea was at her limits of irritation.

Rosalea had let herself be maneuvered like a puppet by the conventions of the Chantry since the Conclave. Frankly, enough was enough.

“Mother Giselle.” She snapped sharply. “I mean no disrespect upon your person - I have been briefed on your rather infamous actions in Jader, and on top of what you are accomplishing here, I frankly have utmost respect for you. But I am _not_ going to turn around and undertake up to a two week journey to Val Royeaux.”

“The people need the Inquisition.” Mother Giselle granted, “But they also need the Chantry. The Chant of Light binds us all, do no underestimate the comfort it can give these souls.”

Rosalea shook her head. “I’m not going to get into a theological argument when there are still wounded here.” She pressed her lips together. “But neither do I see the point - _at this juncture_ \- to approach Val Royeaux.”

“It is the seat of power in Southern Thedas, and you do not see it?” Giselle pointed out with a skeptical glance.

“The remnants of the Mage-Templar war is happening _here_ Mother Giselle.” Rosalea spread her hands wide. “We the Inquisition are no Exalted March to tap to the Chantry’s Tune, but we were given a clear guideline: Restore order to this war-torn world. Rebuild the people who have suffered. In addition to that, yes, we need to close the Breach. That is a priority.”

Overhearing as she walked up to the pair, Cassandra smiled faintly at the familiar litany, before listening with interest at what was being argued.

Rosalea took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “But I can work with the people right here, with the mages and templars who are not _thinking_ , and accomplish that just as well as if I had a writ from the Chantry sanctioning conscription.”

Giselle was quiet for several moments. “What you propose will not be easy. Single-handedly bring a halt to a war when even the Divine could not? And the mages, those who do not fight are holed up in Redcliffe and admit none.”

“They’ll admit me.” Rosalea said confidently. “I have a message for them they’ll want to hear. And if they don’t - I’ll give them that message anyway.”

Cassandra started. “Truly, Rosalie?” She asked in confusion, having not heard of this before hand.

“Lady Montilyet is not the only one with friends in high places.” Rosalea told her. “Although you won’t find them in the court of Orlais.”

Cassandra frowned slightly. "Why did you not bring this up earlier? I doubt Leliana and the others will be pleased that you are going ahead with the mages without consulting them."

Rosalea sighed. "I'm only meeting with them, Seeker Cassandra. If it goes good, or badly, the others will hear about it."

"But the Templars are rumored to be heading to Val Royeaux!" Cassandra protested. "Should you not be giving them the same consideration?"

"I don't see why I should have to go all the way to Val Royeaux when the mages are right here." Rosalea repeated herself stubbornly. "Besides, there are Templars here in the Hinterlands as well we can speak with."

Giselle sighed at them. “Please, I can see you are both very driven individuals. I have faith you both will figure something out to help your Inquisition. But I ask, if you are staying, help these people before you move on. They are in need of a great number of things.”

“No doubt.” Rosalea agreed with a bitter smile. “This is not a good location for these people. It’s not fortified, not supplied, and Redcliffe is not helping. I will do what I can, and what I cannot, Inquisition scouts can.”

“That is good.” Giselle said. “I will stay here as well, until the crisis is over. Assuming you are successful, I shall join you on the way back to Haven.” Rosalea was given a list of names to speak to throughout the throughway, and left to do so. Cassandra looked thoughtful at the litany of what the Revered Mother deemed ‘necessary tasks’.

“And if you see that mage of yours,” Giselle called out at her back, “Please have him assist the healers. There a great number of wounded here, and some are ill. Any help he can give before you leave would be a great relief.”

Rosalea nodded, but didn’t stop moving. Given Solas’ actions last night, she had no doubt that he would have tended the wounded anyway.

Food and shelter was a big concern, as was the fighting still going on around them. The first Rosalea set out to solve right away.

People whispered as she stalked down the road, following the vague **thunk** of arrows to a small garrison on an overlook. Rosalea surveyed their forms for several moments, then thwacked several on the shoulders. “You, you and you.” Rosalea said sharply. “You’re coming with me.”

They looked a little startled, and turned wide eyes between her and the man in charge. Vale frowned. “You are part of this Inquisition? Why are you taking these soldiers?”

“Because they already know how to use a bow.” Rosalea said simply. “There’s a food shortage, and a few rams will cure that.”

“We’re on the Arl’s lands!” One of the lads yelped.

“I don’t care.” Rosalea said firmly. “If the Crown wants to take it up with the Inquisition, they can. But I’m more worried about pulling through a crisis than abiding by hunting laws.”

They glanced uneasily at the Corporal again. He frowned, but then nodded. “Do it. Be back by moonfall.” Vale commanded.

In the end, five people followed Rosalea out of the refuge. The three humans, and two elves who had, apparently, overheard the need and scrambled to follow them, old bows in hand.

After a brief internal debate that Rosalea always lost, she gave them a very abbreviated, curt lecture on Vir Tanadhal as they walked. Then she outlined the practicalities the Dalish actually used in that flowery speech, correcting posture and stalk as they walked through the hills into a sparse forest.

In the end, they didn’t need to go terribly far to find prey. Perhaps an hour of walking, and they spotted the two ram.

“Your bow, Aneril?” She asked, gesturing for the well loved, antique Dalish longbow the boy carried on his back. He handed it over with a little reluctance. “Mark.” She called, and pulled taught, the other men doing the same.

“Loose.” Her arrow struck true, and the others were not bad. One ram dead, and the other tried to limp away on a lame leg. She handed the bow back to it’s owner, spoke quietly, and Aneril took the kill shot for the second.

Rosalea demonstrated how to raise the carcass high in the trees to keep from being scavenged, as well as let it bleed out for the duration they’d be gone. Rosalea carved a rune in the bark for shielding, then they moved on, repeating it time and again until each of them could do it on their own, and set small snares besides.

“We’ll raise this one, and then retrieve the first for tonight’s supp.” She told them. “Perhaps both if we can carry them between us, but if not, we’ll be going back and forth.”

“The Dalish… do this… all the time?” One of the men panted heavily under the head.

She shook her head. “Normally we drag them, but you need a cloth to catch any blood or you risk being scented and tracked down.” That was only half of it. If things weren’t so dire at the refugee encampment, Rosalea would have covered the concept of field dressing.

“Lucky us.” One of them muttered. Another suggested bringing spare canvas for the remaining rams.

Rosalea could have just used her magic, of course. But it built character to let them handle the beasts themselves.

The sun hadn’t reached it’s zenith by the time they carried it back to the Crossroads. Rosalea bade them to eat, and then ensured there were people that knew how to skin, scrape and tan the fur. “For those blankets you need so desperately.” Rosalea said dryly.

“But that can take days!” The hunter protested.

“Then ask a mage!” She snarled at him, fed up. “I can think of a dozen spells that can be used to speed up the curing process off the top of my head!”

He reared back. “Mages!” he spat.

“Yes. Mages. Who can make your life here _much easier._ ” Rosalea shot him a cold look, then turned and left.

A voice spoke up as she turned a corner. “If necessary, Herald, I can help with the hides.” Solas offered mildly. Rosalea eyed him with some amusement, because, assuming he *had* processed that great pelt himself, dyed that hide… Yes, Solas would be able to help them along quite a bit.

“I appreciate the offer, Serrah Solas. Truly.” Rosalea sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “But I want these people a self-sufficient as possible.” She explained wearily.

Solas nodded his understanding and fell into step with her. “Did you have a good hunt?”

Rosalea thought back to the hunt itself. “It was a little frustrating, but children often are when they don’t know how to listen.” She summarized shortly, never-mind that they were full grown adults she was speaking of.

“Haha.” Solas let out a breath of laughter. “This is the second time you’ve implied your age. I still disbelieve.” He declared with a brief look of mischief.

Rosalea blinked. “Second time?” She echoed in confusion.

“Indeed.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “When we first met in fact. You insisted upon arguing with me on semantics while half-dead.”

Rosalea considered that. She only had vague recollections of her time in the dungeon. She _had_ been struck with the impression of familiarity with Solas when they’d met on the mountainside. Perhaps that explained that, then.

“Yes, well.” Rosalea prevaricated. “I’m **not** young, so…”

“And what are you hiding in this great age of yours?” Solas asked with a lilt to his voice as he fished for information. “Children, perhaps?”

Rosalea snorted. Okay, she could see how he would come to that conclusion, but… well, actually. Rosalea had almost forgotten. A very, very long time ago. But, she’d better not. It was easier that way. “I’ve never had any of my own, no.”

Solas hummed in his throat thoughtfully. “Were you first of your Clan? Feel responsible for them all in some manner?” He questioned.

“First? Not… really.” A bemused look crossed Rosalea’s face. “Serrah Solas, you need not invent explanations for me.” She spoke slowly. “It really is as simple as I say it. **I am not young.** ”

Solas’ face still read his discontent at her claim, and Rosalea was done trying to explain it to him. She grit her teeth and changed the subject.

“I was meant to ask, have you been by the healing tent this morning?”

“Yes, were you going to stop by yourself?” He queried, accepting the change with a graceful nod of his head. “There are still a number of injured, and I know you are proficient in the healing arts as well. I’m sure some there would welcome _your_ help.”

“No.” Rosalea replied absently. “I’m still going to go out with those hunters to drag the kills in. Then I planned on meeting with each of you to figure out a route to take through the area to help stabilize it.”

“I see.” Solas said. “Would you like company in the wilds? Such a task will be much faster with two mages along.”

Rosalea cast him a side eyed glance. “Not that I mind, but is there a reason you seem so desperate to keep me company?”

“One offer is not desperate.” Solas countered easily. “But yes. I have healed all but the people who do not wish for either magic, elf, or both to touch them. I found myself with quite a bit of time on my hands while you were out gallivanting in the wilds, and would appreciate a chance to take in nature myself.”

Rosalea shrugged. It wasn’t like she’d outright refuse him. “That’s fine with me, I was just going to put them to work and give a lecture on over hunting and ensuring a sizeable population so they don’t strip the resources too much while the economy is unstable.”

“That’s quite reasonable of you.” Solas commented a little pointedly. “A great number of Dalish do, in fact, strip the land before they move on.”

“Not that I can attest to. Lavellan stays too close to humans to even think of such.” Rosalea said with a frown. “Serrah Solas, I have to ask. Exactly which Clans did you approach that you have such a negative opinion of the Dalish?”

A number of them, apparently, but Solas listed four for her in the last year alone. Rosalea’s frown deepened. 

The one, yes, they were quite stuck up regarding history, another probably did, in fact, shoo him away for being a Flat-Ear. The other two surprised Rosalea, but then she imagined Solas’ scathing remarks at times and deemed him perfectly capable of insulting anybody’s ego if he tried hard enough. He was quite prideful. 

And there were some truths a man such as he could reveal would hardly go well.

“If we’ve ever the opportunity, I’ll have to introduce you sometime to several Clans I know for a fact would welcome your expertise, Serrah Solas.” Rosalea offered.

“We’ll see.” Solas temporized.

The group of hunters they approached had grown by two. An elven female who was clearly related to one of the two, and older man who insisted he could keep up, even if it was mostly retrieval.

Overall, the expedition went well, and they increased their game by well over half again between the small game that had gotten caught in the traps, and Solas ‘helpfully’ displaying the many uses of magic in hunting. 

Rosalea held hope that it proved its point well, and let them be more accepting of the help the mage refugees could give them, in this manner at least.

* * *

“You know Seeker, I’m feeling distinctly abandoned right about now.” Varric spoke as he watched the retreating backs of the Herald and their resident apostate mage.

Cassandra followed his gaze and huffed. “I have barely seen her all day, and now she is off gallivanting with Solas?”

“Oh I don’t know about that. That’s a hunting party if I ever saw one.” Varric pointed out the main body of the exiting group. “Besides, have _you_ ever seen how well elves typically get along? Let me give you a hint: they don’t.”

“Rosalie and Solas seem fine with each other!” Cassandra protested in confusion. “See, they are talking as they leave right now.”

“Well yeah, but what I was getting at was that _that’s not normal,_ Seeker. Especially when one is Dalish.” Varric tacked on, thinking of Daisy and how she so casually irritated a great number of elves, especially Broody. “We should be grateful they can stand each other and move on.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, “Then why did you bring this up Varric?”

“Well, we’ve been abandoned in a camp of refugees by half of our party. Thing is, I’m not exactly getting “Team Player” vibes from Deadpan. Sure she works with us, is helping your Inquisition, but how often is she going off on her own to get stuff done? Don’t you think, maybe, we should be out there with them?” Varric pointed out sensibly.

“You think we should follow them?” Cassandra got up as if intending to do just that.

“Let’s not be hasty, Seeker!” Varric placated her. “Yes, I think we should be with that group. But we’re not, and it looks like _Solas_ asked to go with her. There’s nothing we can do about that now.” Varric grimaced. “But, maybe we should find something to do, like they’ve found things to do. Surely there is something we can do to help around here like our Herald is.”

“You bring up a good point, Varric. And earlier, Mother Giselle did mention some tasks that might be suitable for the likes of you and I. Come, let us go to the forward camp.” Cassandra stomped off in that direction.

“Seeker!” Varric called out at her back, then sighed. “Bianca-baby, that woman is like a raging bull.”

* * *

After some arguing about hasty actions, and some minor dithering on the dwarf’s part, Varric and Cassandra trekked up to the nearest Inquisition camp to go through the collected notes.

While Cassandra did that - Varric was almost certain she’d decided to build those watchtowers all by herself - Varric got gossip from around the camp.

It amounted to a shit ton of rifts, a problem with bandits, the fact that they hadn’t exactly hunted down the warring parties yet, and a slew of other things that came to the minds of the Scouts.

As he was turning, a voice called out to him. “Excuse me, you are that dwarf my friend was avoiding, yes?” He turned to see a tall, severe looking girl with an Inquisition tabard belted over Templar plate. “Tell me, have you seen Sala? I have not seen her yet and I worry for her.”

Sala, Sala, Sala… “Oh right, you’re that woman from a while back. Yeah, she’s just fine. Last I saw her she was out hunting with a group from the Crossroads.” Varric informed the worried woman.

“Thank the Maker she is still safe. Do you know when she’ll return?” Lysette asked, eyeing the ridge like it would reveal Rosalea by searching alone.

“No, afraid not.” Varric said with a frown. “But look, if you’re that worried about her - not that I get that, Deadpan’s one tough nut - why don’t you stick around the Crossroads ‘til she gets back.”

Lysette worried her lip. “My post is here until further notice.” She told the dwarf.

Varric looked her over thoughtfully. “Alright then, how about this. Seeker Cassandra and I are going out into the great unknown to run errands for the Inquisition. You stick around us, and at the end we’ll be in the Crossroads, where you can find her.”

After a moment of thought, Lysette agreed. Being around the Seeker _would_ be an acceptable duty.

Scout Harding was amused but waved her off. “You’ve been talking about your friend for days. If they’re helping in the Crossroads, then by all means check on them when you’re done out there.” Harding thought of something. “Listen, the Herald was pretty pleased with having the rifts marked. Take a map copy, so we can note down if you find any more for them.”

The Seeker came up behind her then. “Varric says that you are going to accompany us. Who are you?”

“I am Lysette, a former Templar.” She explained strongly.

Cassandra looked her up and down. “You can fight?” At her nod, Cassandra looked pleased. “Good. We need good fighters. Come, we are heading back west, there are some promises the Inquisition has to keep.”

With only the slightest nervous glance at Harding, who waved with a look that said better you than me, Lysette followed the Seeker out.

Varric broke the ice as they trekked. “So, how did you two meet, anyway?”

Assuming that the dwarf was speaking of Sala, Lysette spoke hesitantly. “She helped me find a place in this Inquisition.”

“That’s it?” Varric asked incredulously. “She helped you out with the Spymaster and what, suddenly you were friends?”

Lysette huffed. “I don’t know why you think that’s hard to believe. This war has displaced us, Templars and Mages alike. We already had that much in common.” That, and it was none of this dwarf’s business in the first place.

“Alright, that does seem like an obvious thing now that you mention it.” Varric coughed uncomfortably, but still, there was something Varric couldn’t put his finger on, and it was bothering him to no end.

Cassandra spoke up, ruining Varric’s in with the moment. “Where were you trained?”

“I was born and raised in Denerim, but I was sent to Jader.” Lysette offered, thinking of the comfort of Denerim’s Chantry, with it’s well funded research division but how, after the Fifth Blight, there was a scarcity of Templars in Ferelden.

“Explains the accent.” Varric muttered to himself. He cleared his throat and spoke up again. “So why aren’t you a Templar still? You could go back to them.”

Lysette frowned deeply, although it didn’t look like it was aimed at Varric so he took it as a good sign. “Inquisition soldiers saved me on that mountain, after the explosion. I would owe you for that regardless. But more than that, the Templars aren’t _doing anything_. Templars were created to help people, regardless of whether they are mages or not.” Her dark eyes lit up with a passionate fire. “Why should I go to them when it is the Inquisition who is helping the people?”

Cassandra smiled. “An admirable sentiment. I appreciate your words, Lady Lysette.”

“Just Lysette, Seeker.” The young woman waved her off. “My family are tradesfolk, and I was never of any rank of note in the Order. My name alone works well to suffice.”

“Then please, just call me Cassandra.” The Seeker spoke up, enthused. “Everywhere I go, it’s Lady this, Seeker that. I would be glad to hear my name from you.”

Varric coughed in his sleeve. Maker knew *he* rarely bothered with formality with the woman.

“ _You_ do not count, Varric.” Cassandra informed him primly. “I already know I can count on you to be casually disrespectful.” The dwarf rolled his eyes heavenward.

Varric didn’t really think to be suspicious of the route they were taking until he heard running water, accompanied by the distant rush of a waterfall. He shot an alarmed glance at the Seeker. “Are we heading to the Templar encampment?” Varric demanded.

“Yes. We know where they are, and they should either be reasoned with or dealt with.” Cassandra replied firmly.

“And you didn’t think to wait for the Herald?” Varric glared at the Seeker.

Cassandra dismissed it out of hand. “She is a mage. It is good that neither of our mages are with us, as they would be vulnerable to the Templars ahead.”

“And you thought it fine to take an untrained scout with us?” Varric couldn’t help but ask.

“Lysette has determination, and holds her training well. I trust that she will be of much use in the coming confrontation.” Cassandra vouched.

Lysette worried her lip. “This was not how I envisioned this day going, but I will follow your lead, Lady Cassandra.”

Cassandra nodded at Lysette proudly, then made a sharp turn at the river to climb up the cliff path.

Cassandra stomped up, then rapped her sword against her shield loudly to draw the attention of the Templars. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine and Seeker of Truth. Lay down your arms so we may parley, or I will use force to subdue you.”

“Seeker.” Varric muttered out of the corner of his mouth as hands tightened on swords. “I’m not sure that’s the brightest idea.”

“Trust me, Varric. You just watch for my mark. And Lysette, you will step forward and unbelt your tabard.” Cassandra instructed quietly.

A man stepped forward, hand on his sword. “My Brothers!” He called out. Cassandra discreetly showed three fingers. “We must not listen to these people, these _liars_ who are sympathizers of our enemy! Their minds are fogged and they cannot see the truth, the truth only _we_ know! The Mages, and all those who sympathize with them are _the enemy of the people_! We must do our duty, and contain them!”

After a moment’s hesitation, Lysette had a brief flash of insight and stepped up to follow Cassandra’s plan. She tugged the front of her tabard over her head with a quick tug, showing off the Sword of Mercy on her armor. “I, too, consider myself a Templar. Please, do not consider us your enemies and let us speak.”

There were glances around the camp. Lysette took a breath. “Templars were created out of a need to _protect_ people. To be the shield that protects the Chantry’s flock.” Mutters arose.

The Templar in charge unsheathed his sword. “Clearly, they have been compromised!” He cried out.

“Varric!” Cassandra snapped.

Bianca fired. The power behind the crossbow punctured right through the vulnerable slat of the faceplate. With a short, cut off cry the Templar collapsed.

Cassandra gave them a hard stare. “Drop your swords. Now. I would prefer every one of you to walk away from this alive, but if not, do you really wish to fight _me_?” Her last words dripped with disdain and incredulity. Cassandra Pentaghast was **infamous, and they knew it.**

****

Whispers broke out among the rogue Templars, but there was no clear consensus between them.

All that Lysette knew was that one moment, the tension in the air was so thick that she could cut it with her sword. The next, over half the Templars were swarming them as they cried out vitriol.

Lysette drew her sword, stood at ready and parried then pushed.

This is impossible, Lysette thought, taking out her dagger and turning to the side to raise her sword and protect her head because _she wasn’t wearing her bucket why didn’t Lady Cassandra tell her._ It wasn’t a score on three, because some of the other Templars turned on friend and helped them, but neither was this in anyway _good_.

And then there was a great cry, followed by the jarring sound of armor hitting the ground en masse.

Lysette peeked past the blade obscuring her vision and froze.

Cassandra was glowing to her gaze. A pure, white aura surrounded her and rippled out like a heatwave, and evert Templar it touched, it **judged**.

Those found wanting lit up, their veins glowing through their skin with a blue haze.

Lyrium, Lysette realized. Whatever Lady Cassandra was doing, it was reacting to the Lyrium the Templars took.

Every Templar that had been attacking them was insensate on the ground.

Cassandra took a step forward. “Now will you listen?” She demanded harshly.

The Templars that were still standing glanced at each other uneasily, and the ones on the ground groaned at her.

One of them spat at her. “Ma-mage!”

“Clearly, someone was lax in teaching you about Seekers.” Cassandra said dryly. “It is our duty to watch over you Templars, as we alone have the capabilities to do so. But it is not magic, nor are we mages.”

One of the standing Templars spoke up. “The Lord Seeker Lucius wanted us to go to Val Royeaux.”

“And according to this,” Cassandra took out a scrap of parchment that Lysette recognized from the Scouting camp. “You refused. You Templars may believe yourselves to have your autonomy, splitting from the Chantry as you did after the mages. But _this_ , what you are doing here? You should be ashamed.”

“So what are we supposed to do about the mages! They killed the Divine! The Conclave!” Anger crossed their faces, and they looked ready to attack again.

Cassandra silenced them with a look, the slightest flare that caused each and every Templar to flinch.

Lysette felt it as well. It was as if for one second, her blood boiled, and her muscles refused to move an inch.

“The Divine left standing orders before her death.” Cassandra called out. “Will you listen to them, you Templars who have sworn yourself to the Chantry?”

Some of the Templars, still cringing in pain, brought themselves to one knee. They all looked at Cassandra warily, but Lysette felt they would listen. Certainly, she would listen, even all ready being part of the Inquisition.

“Divine Justinia said this: In the event of failure on my part, my Left and Right Hands are to rebuild the Inquisition of old.” Cassandra sounded like she was quoting someone as she spoke. “We are to find those who will stand against the chaos. We are to put a stop to these warring factions and restore order, by any means necessary.” 

“The Divine wished for peace among you Templars and the mages, to stop this war. This she did not accomplish. But she left us the tools to **stop you**.” Cassandra spoke strongly. “So you will lay down your arms, or be prepared to face the consequences of committing unsanctioned war and rebelling against the last orders of Divine Justinia.”

Cassandra sheathed her sword. “You may now make your decision among yourselves, but know this, any who try to attack, or leave this place with weapon in hand, will be taken down.”

Cassandra would no doubt try and take them prisoner, Lysette reflected as she and Varric followed her down the path. But the way the world was, with the Breach and the war… The Right Hand was not a position of mercy.

“She’s kind of scary, isn’t she.” Varric muttered to Lysette.

Lysette gazed at Cassandra, with her strong stride and proud tilt to her head. “Scary, yes. But admirable nonetheless.”

“You felt it right?” Varric questioned her. “What’d that feel like? Know it looked as bad, but…”

Lysette was quiet for a moment. “As if I were on fire, but couldn’t scream, because every part of me rebelled against me owning my own body.”

Varric looked between the two women, then shuddered a bit. “Scary.” He reiterated.

Ahead of them, Cassandra smiled.

There were times it felt good to be feared.

* * *

**\-- A Spirit’s Tale: IV--**

* * *

When at last Sharth and Fortitude were allotted a room to themselves, the elf turned to the spirit with a great scowl. “Don’t you have any concept of privacy!” Sharth demanded, still enraged.

Fortitude spun around Sharth in a curious circle. “ _Privacy. The act of being alone and away from other people, yes? We are in privacy right now. Or do you wish me to leave you alone?_ ”

Sharth rubbed the bridge of his nose, even as his heart in loneliness. “No, stay, Fortitude. I’ve… no wish to be alone.” The Spirit acknowledged such truth with a graceful dip of it’s head. “But I must explain something to you, although I am not certain you will have the capability of understanding it.”

Fortitude came to a stop in front of the elf. “ _Yes, Sharth?_ ”

Sharth reached over and grabbed the Spirit’s insubstantial hands. “As Cunning, a great deal of what I knew was instinctual, much like yourself. But for me, it was concepts much like privacy. I knew what to say, when to say things, in such a way they would work best.”

Fortitude frowned. “ _I have heard a phrase before, Invasion of privacy. I was told it was primarily used when barging in one's Dreams without permission, as one barges in one's bathing chamber._ ”

The elf’s lips twitched at the apt comparison. No wonder Fortitude had the base definition it had. “That is one way of viewing it, yes.”

The Spirit tried to piece it together. “ _I… invaded your privacy… by saying what happened at my home?_ ”

Sharth closed his eyes. Spirits. “It wasn’t just my privacy, Fortitude. In part, it was yours as well.” He caught Fortitude’s eyes, the familiar comforting red-gold that burned like the sun. “Yet you must know that Words, too, have privacy. And we must use cunning to judge when to speak them.”

Fortitude frowned. “ _Sharth._ ” It all but whined. “ _I don’t speak to words! I’m not Wisdom or Cunning or-_ ” Sharth covered the Spirit’s mouth with his palm.

Wrong approach, again. Why weren’t Spirit’s easy?

Then Sharth realized something he should have from the start.

“Fortitude, listen to me.” His voice was very serious suddenly. Fortitude quieted, so Sharth let his hand fall to clasp the Spirit’s hands again to still it.

“ _Can you keep a secret?_ ”

* * *

It didn’t go quite as smoothly as Sharth hoped. Clearly, the phrase was something the Spirit resonated with, but...

Sharth then had to define what a secret was, to his unending frustration.

In the end, Fortitude understood it in a rather plain manner: “A secret is something that you know, that other people want to know. But a secret is **yours** , Fortitude, and you must not let them have it.”

When he considered it, Sharth was a little surprised that Fortitude didn’t know what a secret was. A spirit of solidarity and earth like it should know it instinctively, Cunning thought, especially someone who was a guard to the Phoenix-King.

But, considering Fortitude’s actions thus far… Sharth wondered if perhaps it would be apt to say, there had been no secrets between Lingrearaj and Fortitude.

A sly smile crossed Sharth’s lips as he imagined, once again, prying apart the hidden secrets of the Former-King.

Unfortunately, just the act of getting Fortitude to understand what else not to say ate up so much of the little time the dwarves allotted them by themselves, Sharth had little time to prepare when finally, he was bodily dragged from the room to appear before the court.

Eerie blue eyes tracked his movements carefully. In turn, Sharth observed them with an analytical gaze - the dwarves truly connected to the Stone were something else entirely.

“You stand here to address the Collective of Kal-Sharok. You are Captain Sharth, of the lands above, are you not?” At his nod, the herald continued. “And you brought forth one of your false-beings from above.”

Sharth waited patiently for them to address the issue. “A Spirit of Fortitude, yes.”

“The both of you claim to know the source of the tremors here in Kal-Sharok.” The dwarf implied, but did not ask.

Sharth caught Fortitude’s eye across the room, saying without words: Clearly, the Dwarves were attempting to pry his secrets from him without asking.

He deliberately didn’t volunteer the information, intent on making it a lesson for the Spirit. “That is correct.”

The dwarf frowned at him. “Tell us of the happenings on the surface that are causing these tremors.”

Sharth was silent for another beat, merely to prove his point, and then spoke. “There lies a great caldera to the north. There was a great Spirit-King, Lingrearaj, of whom every great Retelling in the region belonged to, and whom was bonded to the volcano. His death sundered the land, and angered the Volcano.”

Muttering broke out among the dwarves. This was the work of **Spirits** , they spat, but it was putting Kal-Sharok in jeopardy. One more large quake could topple the precarious tunnels spanning the North.

“This is a trouble of the Above that is affecting _us_!” One voice cried out in fury.

“We do not have the authority to act,” One acknowledged Sharth with a nod, “or even the knowledge of how to fix a Spirit-matter. You are of the Above, Captain Sharth, of the Elvhen. You must go to your people and find a solution.”

One of the dwarves with the eerily glowing eyes intoned suddenly. “Resolve this, or you will not like our solution.”

A threat from the Stone itself.

Sharth eyed the dwarves surrounding him, taking in their easy acceptance and will to follow through, and bowed, touching his hand to his forehead. “It is as you say. I will report this to my superiors in Arlathan.”

The Stone-touched dwarf stared at him. “You will fix this, Sharth of Elvhenan.”

Well, Sharth mused, seeing Fortitude flicking in and out of visibility in it’s corner, at least the threats no doubt drove home their talk of why secrets were necessary effectively.

* * *

“ ** _I promise, I will never tell a secret again_**.” Fortitude vowed.

Sharth hoped this wouldn’t bite him in the ass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appear to have lost my notes. Oops.
> 
> I spent all that time with the setup for Solas and Rosalea's plan, and suddenly Cassandra is like, "You went right past the Templars! We must take care of this!" and then that combined with her desperate pleas for them to stop fighting... I didn't plan it, but I'm glad for it. It'll sow a little discord, 
> 
> It's been interesting for me to compare and contrast different Spirits. Things that come naturally to Cunning are definitely not natural to Fortitude. There'll be a bit more of this later, because Rosalea in some backwards reflection, in turn makes some assumptions about Solas.
> 
> I was just going to label the chapter The Hinterlands, and have it be a shit ton of I Hate The Hinterlands, but people are more important than crannies.
> 
> And if you're interested, about half way through the chapter you can see the entire lead up to that flirting drabble I had to cut out, because Yeah, so not something for this early in the fic lmao.


End file.
